The Rules of Engagement
by AerynFire
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has always declared the fair sex to be John Watson's province...until Helen Thurlow. Now, he must learn the rules of this most foreign of territories and find a balance between matters of the head and of the heart.
1. Uncharted Waters

**_Quick A/N before we begin. This story is the continuation of our other stories: The Forfeit Daughter, An Unforeseen Occurrence, and The Courtship of Helen Thurlow. We would like to recommend that you read those first, if only to spare yourself any confusion. Thank you so much! -- Aeryn (half of aerynfire)_**

* * *

_**The Rules Of Engagement**_

**_  
Chapter One: Uncharted Waters_**

_13th December, 1889_

The hoar frosted snow on the pavement crunched underfoot as Sherlock Holmes stepped from the hansom out into the chilly London night. Stopping to brush off his heavy black overcoat, he regarded the fine Berkley Square residence of Sir Nicholas and Lady Margaret Sotherby with seeming impassivity.

It was 7:46 precisely.

He knew this for a certainty and without recourse to the timepiece nestled deep within the fob pocket of his white dress waistcoat, for the bells of St. George's Hanover Square had sounded exactly one minute before his arrival. And in their doing so, they had heralded a second already certain fact -- he was late, considerably late…some forty-six minutes so.

His meeting with his most recent client, a Mr. Arnold Swaine, at their home had delayed him greatly. On setting out from Baker Street, his tardiness was already a fait accompli. The details of this latest burgeoning case, involving organised swindling, confidence tricks, and fraud of the most elaborate sort at the very highest levels, had consumed his mind utterly. So much so that he had forgotten all about the time. Ironic, considering that up to his meeting with Watson at their client's residence, he had thought about nothing _but_ this seven o'clock rendezvous.

7:47 rendezvous, he corrected himself.

It was quite clear that his first assignation as suitor to Miss Helen Thurlow of St. Albans and Brown's Hotel, Mayfair was not off to an auspicious start. Still, he thought to himself, she was sure to understand. His work was _his work_, after all. Other than Watson, she understood that better than anyone. She knew how intrinsic it was to his nature and how large a part it would play in every aspect of what was to come. His work would always be a hindrance of some magnitude to her and in truth, a danger to her as well. Which is why, of course, they would have to be most circumspect in their dealings as a couple.

All of his acquaintances of any long standing, even friends from his past, were open to danger simply by association with him. As his particular lady friend, however, she would be automatically the most high profile target. The one regarded as being his most vulnerable spot. So for that reason, on the day he had secured their courtship, he had made mention to her before leaving St. Albans of the need to approach their changed circumstances 'quietly.' And she had readily agreed with little more than that single prompt that '_quietly and carefully'_ was indeed the way to proceed. It was necessary, obviously so, and a goodly part of the reason he was allowing himself to be here tonight, planning to do what he had sworn time and time again he would never ever do…court a woman.

Despite his outwardly calm appearance, the thought sent yet another ripple of apprehension through him as he stood outside the Sotherby's home…and quite literally at the threshold of an entirely new venture. He was in uncharted waters here. In these seas, it was Watson who was Master and Commander. And it was Watson who had sent him off tonight with all the insufferable air of a smug Papa.

Doctor, inveterate ladies man, charmer. His gentlemanly conduct and affability made him as comfortable in these moments as Holmes himself would be in the midst of a chemical experiment or delivering a paper on forensic advances to a room full of select experts.

The detective suppressed the edginess with a surge of irritation and a crease of his brow. He had been out with her alone many times -- there was no need for idiocy. This was no difference in essence to any of those. Just because he had professed his…emotional attachment of some depth…to her, it did not mean things had to descend to foolishness.

Perhaps, though, he might have stopped to bring her something. Men had a tendency to bring gifts, he noted, as a token of their esteem.

No. He huffed slightly. _Foolishness_. She knew he esteemed her. He had told her so in detail just days before. She hardly required flattering reassurance so soon. There was no need of such actions. Was there? His frown deepened. Did she even expect such things from him? She had come to care for him as he was. If he took to such actions now, would she find it mundane, twee, and annoying to be so fawned over?

He didn't even know what he should say in presenting such a token to a woman. As he had told her, sentimental expressions were most definitely _not_ his forte, and the last thing he wished was to make a fool of himself in front of her through either words or actions.

Already, he had discovered there were entirely too many different paths and actions to take in this field of romance. One could tie oneself in knots and spend hours trying to make the simplest of decisions. Each one decided by guesswork, based solely on instinct and what you thought would please the other person best with no guarantee that it would. After he had found himself dwelling over two white ties that were in essence identical, he had derided himself and deemed it to be a ridiculous way of carrying on. Far better to just be himself…act as he knew best -- pragmatic and level headed in all things.

Telling the young cab driver who had brought him there to wait, he strode up the few wide, shallow granite steps to the black high gloss panelled front door. Its brasses immaculately polished and gleaming under the twin lamps lit on either side, the portal issued a welcoming warmth.

On drawing on the black iron bell pull with one white gloved hand, he stood back to wait. Turning away, he took a reflective moment to entertain the lamp lit, Plane Tree-lined immaculate surrounds of the quiet square and the low hanging leaden grey skies above it. The heavy snowfall of the previous week had lingered, gleaming white, upon the ground and the clouds above threatened a fresh fall this bitter December night. As he pondered upon the chance of it doing so, a tall, steel-grey haired butler with an impressively large set of fluffed out mutton chops opened the door behind him.

"May I help you?" the servant enquired politely but as the visitor turned, the servant instantly recognised the man upon the doorstep as the gentleman who had caused such a stir at the costumed ball a few weeks previous. For turning up to such an event _as oneself_ did have a tendency to make one stand out that way. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, sir, good evening. Come in, you are expected."

Removing his top hat, the detective stepped into the warmth. "Good evening, Bronson -- isn't it?"

"Indeed, sir." The Butler inclined his head. "Good of you to remember."

"I never forget a man who affords me a quiet undisturbed place to smoke," Holmes replied. "Your assistance on the night of the ball was much appreciated, Bronson. I am here to escort Miss Thurlow to dinner, is she ready to depart?" He glanced at the ornate clock upon the wall with some irritation, the time indicated there only serving to admonish him.

"For _some_ time now, sir, yes." Bronson inclined his head slowly after following the detective's eyes to the Swiss chronometer. "I believe Miss Thurlow is waiting in the drawing room with her Ladyship. If you will wait here, sir, I shall announce you."

"Thank you, Bronson." Holmes nodded as he took in the décor of the small atrium in which he stood. Clasping his hands and hat behind his back, he moved to look at an Alpen painting that had caught his eye, his demeanour all nonchalance and ease. Though as Bronson slipped away, there was little the older man could do but notice how their guest's hat was dancing over his fingers in something of a merry jig.

* * *

"Helen, _do_ sit down." Lady Margaret Sotherby looked up from her book and nightly indulgence of a glass of whiskey and soda stolen from her husband's stock. "Nicholas had that Persian rug shipped back here at some considerable expense. He really will be most disagreeable if he gets back from the club to discover you've worn a trench in it," she chastised even as her lips twitched upwards. 

"What time is it?" Helen paused and turned once more in a rustle of satin from her deep blue puff-sleeved gown.

With a barely restrained sigh, Margaret glanced at the clock and then back to her best friend. "It is _precisely_ one minute and fifteen seconds later than when you asked me the last time. Three minutes and forty-five seconds from the time you asked me before that…and five minutes and…"

"Very well, Maggie, I see your point," Helen interrupted quickly. Moving back to the chair she had sprung in and out of more times in the last thirty minutes than a perennially wound up jack in the box, she sat down rather ungracefully. "I am _sorry_ for irritating you," she groused before catching herself and frowning her behaviour. Letting out a long breath, she gave her friend a rather apologetic look. "_Am_ I irritating you?"

"Only on the wider laps of the room," Margaret replied teasingly her to which Helen gave a small contrite grin and dipped her eyes with a wry chuckle.

"I'm sorry…it's just…he's late."

"Yes." Margaret's smile grew wider. "I _had_ noticed."

"Yes…but…you see," Helen tried to explain, glancing back to her, "he used to do this when we had appointments to meet before, that is, when we were merely concert partners." She frowned at finding herself feeling this way. She should at this moment be away for the evening, overjoyed at her first outing as a bona fide couple with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Instead, here she was sitting in the drawing room of her oldest friend's palatial London home, feeling the tell tale and very familiar emotions of again being forgotten. "I understand that his work is, of course, of the most paramount importance and that has not changed, but I had hoped that should this happen again…"

"He might show a little more consideration for your changed circumstances?" her friend finished for her.

The auburn haired woman sighed. "Am I being too sensitive, do you think? It's just…well before he left for London last week he suggested, and I agreed, that we take things quietly and carefully. I had thought that signalled his intent to approach our new state on a step by step basis, paying more attention to each other's sensitivities. But now…" She grimaced slightly before sagging a little. "Am I being a little _over_ sensitive, do you think? He is only…" She glanced at the clock and despite herself, frowned again. "_Fifty_ minutes late."

The door to the drawing room opened precisely as she finished, and Bronson stepped inside with a light cough even though both women's eyes were already firmly and expectantly upon him. "Excuse me, your ladyship. Miss Thurlow?" he said softly. "Mr. Holmes has arrived and is waiting in the atrium."

"Well…" Margaret said cheerily, taking a sip of her drink, "better late than never!"

Helen rose slowly from her seat, glancing at the clock again as she tried to decide whether she should just be pleased that he was here at last, or allow herself to fully feel the deep annoyance that he could not be bothered to send word that he would be late. "Very well, Bronson. If you could send him in?" she asked, resuming her seat again and deciding to give the detective the benefit of the doubt.

"Yes, Miss." The butler turned to go back to the door and paused. "However, Miss...I believe he has a cab waiting; shall I arrange for it to be sent away? Will you be staying in?"

She bit back a groan. Of course he had a cab waiting. They were now late for whatever he had planned, so relaxing and talking, easing into this rather nerve wracking evening was completely out of the question. "No, Bronson, I believe I shall just follow you out," she replied smoothly but with a hint of irritation at being so rushed. "Tell Mr. Holmes I will be with him directly."

Casting a mildly exasperated glance at her best friend, Helen caught the tiny smile upon Margaret's face as she raised her glass again. The dark haired woman in turn noted the accusatory glare she received in return for her treacherous grin. "Oh come, Helen…" Margaret chuckled and tried to assuage her, "you did choose to attach yourself to such a man, knowing how he was and how his mind worked. Can it come as any surprise when he behaves just that way? He's here and eager to be off with you! Look on the bright side!"

Inhaling deeply, Helen let it out in a short dry sigh and nodded with a small smile. "You're right, of course. The evening begins here."

Rising from her seat, she retrieved and slipped on her heavy fitted wool coat with its high fur collars and cuffs and affixed her fur hat to her head before picking up her matching muff. The two friends kissed their goodbyes, Margaret declining to meet Holmes so as not to hold them up further but not allowing Helen on her way until she made a promise to wake her friend upon her return and tell her 'absolutely every little detail.'

Walking sedately and taking great care to keep her face composed, Helen stepped out into the atrium and regarded the back of the tall, dark man whom she loved and who was currently deeply engrossed in one of Margaret's rather fine paintings of Switzerland. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes."

Turning from his scrutiny of the painting to observe her presence, Holmes gave her a small but notable smile. "Good evening, Miss Thurlow." Crossing the atrium towards her, he took her outstretched gloved hand and bowed over it. "I trust you are well?"

Seeing his smile and feeling it warm her heart, she pushed aside the doubts that had been plaguing her over the past week and smiled softly in return. "Quite," she assured him. "And how fare you?"

"Exceedingly well." He straightened, releasing her hand. "I apologise for my tardiness. _Work_," he told her simply in what she thought was a rather offhand manner -- the single word being conveyed as if it alone was sufficient explanation. Not that he gave her any time to dwell upon it as he pushed the conversation along in that rapidly direct manner of his. "It's a remarkably cool night, but I see you are sensibly well fortified against its effects," he noted approvingly, regarding her becoming outfit but making no other comment upon it or her than that. "Excellent. I suggest, however, unless you have something further you need to do, that we delay no longer."

"No. Nothing _further_," she replied with a smooth nod, though finding fault with his choice of words and what felt like the implied suggestion that she was somehow holding them up and internally commenting, as he waved her forward with a slight bow, that he should remember the _delay_ was entirely one-sided.

"Good evening, Miss, sir, I hope you have a pleasant time," Bronson said as they passed.

"Thank you, Bronson," she returned with a smile. "I expect to return here by ten thirty. Eleven at the latest, given our start." She pointedly added extra time for their delay.

Outside, after helping her up into the hansom, Holmes looked to the cabbie as he put a foot on the step. "Take us to Holborn, cabbie...to the Holborn Restaurant." The driver nodded as the detective slipped into the seat beside Helen, reaching for the thick blanket that was used to keep customers warm on nights like this and spreading it over both their laps.

"Holborn?" she enquired once they were underway, mildly surprised that they were heading away from the centre of the city.

"Yes. It makes sense and is perfect for our requirements. It's not too far away. We should be allocated a table with little bother. The food is good if not luxurious...and most importantly there is little by way of society fuss or press to intrude upon us. We should be virtually incognito."

She endeavoured to keep her smile demure, feeling rather pleased at his evident desire to be uninterrupted whilst with her. "I am sure it will be most acceptable. After all, it is the company that I wish to spend time with; the food is merely a pleasant addendum, and you know my feelings on society hubbub. A nice quiet dinner sounds just wonderful."

"Splendid." Holmes nodded, content that she continued to appreciate the need for them to be low key about their relationship. "I think you will enjoy the Grill Room there," he observed before there was a slight lull, during which his mind rather alarmingly went blank and began searching swiftly for something else to say. "Watson sends his regards."

She blinked a little at the rapid shift in conversation. "Please give him mine as well," she replied. "Mary informed me that his practice has been booming as of late."

"Yes, it is increasingly difficult to pry him away to come with me on cases," he agreed while looking out as the cab moved through the streets of Mayfair. "It's a shame you're not a man, then I could ask you to come with me instead," he pronounced before immediately wondering what on earth had prompted him to say _that_.

Turning to him, she stared at him with an expression of both shock and pleasure. "That...that is most gratifying to hear, Mr. Holmes," she returned, her eyes shining. "Though I fear I could never, even if I were a man, fill the good doctor's shoes."

"No, your feet would need to be considerably larger," he noted in an attempt at dry humour that came out a little more seriously then he had intended. Clearing his throat, he glanced about them once more. "So...how fares your mother and brothers?"

She frowned a little, trying to decide if he was being literal, humorous, or actually thought of her such a great deal less than John Watson. She knew she had not performed well upon the one case she had been involved in with him…but still. "They are all well," came her reply after a moment. "My mother has taken to hosting a whist night every fortnight for herself, and a few friends and my brothers continue to get up to as much mischief as possible. Though Matthew has progressed considerably in his piano playing, and though it is far too early to be taken seriously, he has hinted on pursuing a path with it." She smiled a little in remembrance. "He practices for three hours each day...which suits Andrew well, as he takes the opportunity to strengthen his riding skills."

"Your brothers, for twins, do have remarkably differing temperaments and interests in some respects," he observed.

"Some," she agreed. "But remarkably similar in others. They still talk as one, finishing each other's sentences. I confess it was a little disconcerting at first, but now if they do not, I get nervous as it usually means they are arguing."

"Do they argue often?" he enquired as a breath of cold wind wafted her perfume over him. A scent which was quite intriguing -- amber and vanilla, a hint of labdanum and honey with a maceration technique obviously using an ethanol base. A _Guerlain_ creation no doubt, he mused.

"Oh no!" she replied, shaking her head and turning back to him. "Hence why it is so disconcerting when it occurs."

"Yes, I'd imagine so. Boys, especially brothers, will argue. I..." he continued, starting to make mention of him and Mycroft before stopping, remembering that he had not as yet informed her of the existence of the elder Holmes, and concluded that a cab ride through the streets of London was not the proper time to suddenly make that most private of revelations to her. Naturally, the conversation died again. "So, a pianist?" he asked with sudden quickness, reverting back to the earlier topic.

"Yes?" she asked, mildly confused at the shift again in the conversation and trying not to show how awkward she was beginning to feel. Why was he not acting like his usual self? His conversation was generally thoughtful and fluid...now suddenly it was choppy and unfocused.

"You said Matthew was keen on playing the piano as a future career path?" He glanced over at her. "Would you be approving of such an endeavour?"

"Oh...well, he is only nine...but if he shows continued commitment and it doesn't interfere with his responsibilities when he comes of age, I do not see why not. Having musical talent is rare and it should be treasured and savoured," she mused, her eyes meeting his. "I suppose I just want him to be happy."

He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement of that. "Still, who can tell? If talent and luck hold true, perhaps he might play upon some of the concert stages we have visited in the past. Which reminds me..." he added, "we should consider falling back into those companionable habits again. Picking up where we left off."

She stiffened ever so slightly. Companionable? And considering the outcome of the last time they had been to one of those concerts, picking up where they had left off was not something that was high on her priorities. "Is that what you want?" she asked softly. "To resume old habits?"

"Most certainly." His brow creased a little. "You did not enjoy our concert going?"

Forcing her body to be calm, she betrayed none of the anxieties that, despite her eagerness to start this new phase of their relationship, had still been tugging at the back of her mind over the past week. "No...I did. Quite a bit actually," she replied truthfully, carefully omitting any commentary about that being when he was actually _in attendance_ with her.

"But you don't wish to resume the habit?" He gazed at her keenly, unsure of why she seemed to be reacting to the suggestion so tentatively. They had a public track record as platonic companions at these events; it would be an ideal way to be seen in society without gossips' tongues wagging.

Helen appeared thoughtful for a moment, taking great care not to show how she was actively trying to find a diplomatic way of voicing her concerns. "I would rather create new paths and memories...than simply be content to resume an old companionable habit."

He looked away somewhat disconcerted, as he'd been looking forward to resuming their concert activities. "I see well...perhaps, galleries and museums, then?" he suggested.

She bit back a sigh of frustration as he missed her point...again. "Sherlock," she began, using his proper name to emphasise her need for him to understand, "it is not the location that I would wish to change. I would and do greatly enjoy going to recitals and operas with you. I merely wish to...that is…we were simply on friendly terms when we went on such outings previously. It is different now..._we_ are different now. I suppose I wish our relationship to grow and develop...not stay where it once was."

He shifted uncomfortably as the topic moved unexpectedly towards the choppy waters of emotionalism, not truly understanding why. "Well, of course, naturally in reality that _would _be the case. But I fail to see why such...deepening...circumstances should or would change what was, to my mind, an enjoyable regular aesthetic appreciation of musical talent. Especially when it affords us the opportunity to walk about as companions."

Her face betrayed nothing at the use of _that _word again, but her eyes dulled for a moment as she again turned her head away. "Of course," she replied softly. "But Sherlock, while companionship is important, if one finds all one desires in friendship, what is the motive to have anything more? It is a building block certainly, but also reasons to allow stagnation. What of love in a relationship? Should that not also be a most important and vital point?" she challenged, her tone reverting to the debates of old.

There was no escaping it. He was utterly bewildered and his frown grew deeper as he gazed at her, unable to understand why she seemed so offended by the suggestion of their using their old concert going ways as a cover for their new situation and moreover, why she insisted on redefining that new situation. Why was she so insistent on bringing up the subject of love? His eyes dipped away as he grew even more uncomfortable. "I believe I did not suggest otherwise," he murmured. "Love," he said slowly, "is, of course, a fundamental part of any long lasting relationship."

His mind ticked over rapidly...what did she want him to say? That love was the most important factor in a relationship? Did she need him to declare it? Did she want him to say that was what he wanted? Or declare again that that was what he felt for her? All of a sudden instead of one clear cut discussion, there seemed to be a dozen hidden ways of progressing on this...but which one was the one she sought from him? He'd only suggested they start going to concerts again and now this maze was laid before him!

She gazed at him a moment longer before nodding, her posture the same but inwardly feeling rather defeated. His body language was telling. He was uncomfortable, possibly regretting his decision. That, or he was simply content for things to be as they once were. She had no doubt he loved her, he would not have said so if he didn't. But was it the same as she felt for him? Was it simply a deep affection...not the passion she felt for him? Had she merely exchanged places with William Edwards in this new affair? He seemed intent on having his companion back. Was that all she was...a habit?

Her inner voice was again chastising her that she was over-reacting, but her anxieties were merely gaining more momentum and proof with each word. Calm...enjoy your dinner. Perhaps it is not as bad as you think, she told herself.

They arrived at the out of the way restaurant soon enough and were escorted to a private booth in the comfortable Grill away from prying eyes. On being given their menus, Holmes ordered a bottle of wine and then glanced at her, noting her dress and how its form and the rich deep blue colour suited her and how well her auburn hair looked with the curls at the side of her face framing it softly. There was no denying how attractive she looked in the candle light.

"You look..." he began, only for her eyes to move from the menu to his at his first word and his throat to constrict suddenly, "chilled still. Perhaps you should try the Clear Turtle soup to begin with. It is rather good."

She nodded slowly, turning her eyes back to her menu. "I will keep it in mind," she noted, her back stiffening ever so slightly, feeling foolish that she even dared to hope that he was about to say something personal. Her eyes scanned the menu, trying to find something that appealed, but in truth her appetite had waned considerably.

He watched, trying to fathom her thought processes. Not once in all the times he had sat with her or talked with her had he ever felt as awkward as now...and it was obvious she felt the same. He was trying hard to live up to his earlier decision to be level headed, but it was difficult when there was a disconcerting air of expectancy surrounding her that was as impenetrable as any mystery he had ever investigated.

She appeared to be waiting for him to say or do something, and he hadn't the vaguest idea what it was, never mind how to articulate it or do it. If he said or did something and it wasn't it, then it would only serve to make him look even more clueless in her eyes.

"I believe I will have the Virginia Quail," he said merely to break the silence, which was becoming oppressive. "Does anything seem inviting to you?"

"I think…the Whitebait," she replied, glancing briefly at him before allowing her eyes to take in their surrounding, finding it a small but charming place indeed.

On placing their orders, discussion of the decor and the food on offer helped ease things somewhat, and to Holmes's relief, they relaxed still further while they sipped on their wine and he recounted the tale of how he first came to this restaurant as part of a case.

By the time their entrées arrived, he was in the midst of regaling her with the story of the mysterious message that had brought him to this discretely placed restaurant, the Albanian man with the black eyed patch he had met here who claimed to know of a plot against Mr. Gladstone, and his subsequent disappearance from the gentlemen's W.C. from which there appeared no exit save the way he had entered.

As they ate, they settled into an easy discussion of who she thought might have been the possible plotters and the available evidence he had to work with. He was just about to inform her of what he had discovered about his vanishing informant when someone stopped by their table and addressed him. Looking up, Holmes took in the face of one Robert Fortescue, an old client. Putting down his napkin, the detective stood as the old acquaintance held out his hand. "Mr. Fortescue," he greeted him as he shook the proffered hand. "It's been a long time."

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes, indeed." The tall, blue-eyed, brown haired man smiled and returned the hand shake vigorously. "It's been eight years now since you helped me with that..." he glanced at Helen, "little problem I was having with a former investor."

"Yes, I remember." Holmes nodded. "How is your business these days?"

"Thriving, thank you," Fortescue replied. "I'm here with a client for dinner." He glanced at Helen again and then back at Holmes. Helen, fascinated by the interaction, also looked to her dinner companion, waiting to be introduced as was only polite, and Holmes obliged…after a fashion.

"Your pardon. Miss Helen Thurlow. Mr. Richard Fortescue, an old client of mine as you have no doubt deduced. Mr. Fortescue...Miss Thurlow," he said quickly and resumed his seat.

Fortescue waited, and once he realised Holmes wasn't going to be more forthcoming about the woman with him, bowed slightly. "Charmed, Miss Thurlow."

"How do you do?" she asked with a courteous incline of her head and a small smile while privately admitting to being more than a little irked that she'd been so hurriedly and scantily introduced. What would this man think of her? She smiled again at the former client, glancing at Holmes, wanting him to say something...anything.

He did. "You must drop by Baker Street some time and catch Watson and myself up on your progress since last we met...sometime when we are both not so similarly distracted."

If she had been irked before, Helen was suddenly erect with indignation. _Similarly distracted?_ What was she? A _client _such as the one Fortescue had with him?

"Of course...I will be happy to, Mr. Holmes," Fortescue replied, realising that in so many words he was being dismissed. "I shall call upon you and the doctor soon. In the meantime, I shall leave you to your business." He glanced at Helen again, inclining his head towards her. "Miss Thurlow."

"Mr. Fortescue," she returned, a civil smile plastered upon her face. A smile that faded to a mask of placidity as he turned away. She gazed upon her plate, thanking heaven that she had long ago learned to not show her emotions too greatly...because in truth, she wanted nothing more than to hurry from the restaurant and cry. To be thought of as a friend...or even a habit...was one thing. But to be publicly introduced and therefore dismissed as a _client _with no more connection to him than Fortescue… It felt as though she'd been smacked in the face.

Holmes picked up his napkin and laid it in his lap before returning to his meal, pleased that Fortescue, who had connections with the press, had left under the impression that Helen and he were here only on business. "Interesting chap. I must tell you a little of his case some time...a matter of fraud and deception, quite intricate." He received no reply as she continued to look at her plate, her face paling the more her stomach and her hurt churned within her. Glancing up as he went to lift the forkful of roasted quail he had accumulated, he noticed her pallor and her silence. "Are you quite well?"

"I fear...not," she whispered, summoning the strength to look at him.

"You are ill?" He frowned in concern. "Would you care to return home?"

Her mind reeled, every nervous thought she had had over the past week seeming to take on life. It was a hideous mistake. She should never have accepted his offer. She wasn't what he needed. William had been right; she needed more from Sherlock than the detective could ever give her. She had to leave...get over this gnawing hurt...find a way to end this...yes...that would be best. "I think that would be best," she agreed with a nod.

He observed her for a moment more before rising to his feet. "Of course," he agreed, moving to draw her chair out for her and escort her to the cloakroom to put on her coat and hat while he went to settle the bill. Dressing slowly, she felt as though she was submerged in molasses, every move simply adding to the ache. Once she was ready, though, she crossed over to the doorway to wait for him, half desiring to simply hail a cab and return back to her friend's home alone.

It wasn't until they were in that cab and on their way back that he realised her silence was not borne of illness but of solemnity, and her refusal to look at him no matter what he said or did only convinced him further that her malady was not of the body. She was angry with him. Or upset. Or both.

The realisation caused him to fall silent in his attempts to take her mind off her 'illness' and instead fall into a reverie about what it was that he had done to offend her. It had been awkward, yes…but aside from Fortescue's interruption, which he had dealt with as quickly as he could, everything had gone quite well within the restaurant, he thought. And yet obviously something had upset her.

He wracked his brain the rest of the way until the moment the horse pulled up outside the Sotherbys' home a mere hour after they had left, and he turned to her to ask her his offence. "Helen..." he began, the situation demanding his use of her Christian name.

Turning to him but still not looking him in the eyes, she mumbled a quick but polite farewell before fleeing the cab, and upon Bronson's appearance at her rapid knock upon the door, disappeared inside the house.

Holmes stared after her, startled by the rapidity of her exit. He had stopped half way out of the cab in pursuit of her when he saw her rap upon the door in so urgent a manner as to be obviously in flight from him. It was quite clear that she did not want him to follow her. Confusion and irritation, both at her and himself, reigned supreme and his chin sagged to his chest as he began to replay the night's events in vivid detail.

"Pardon me, sir?" the cabbie hedged from up above, still waiting for instructions about what to do next.

Holmes glanced up and straightened, his jaw tightening as his confusion gave way to annoyance. "Take me to Kensington. Queen Anne's Street, post haste!" he ordered, his eyes flinty as he stared out at the road. "Quick, man!"

* * *

Some twenty minutes later at precisely 9:34 at night at the serene home of Dr. and Mrs. J. Watson, there came a dreadfully loud hammering at the door. Upon the fifth round, a rather flustered maid opened it. "Mr. Holmes, sir!" She stared at him nervously, knowing her master and mistress were at the moment not wanting to be disturbed. 

Holmes marched straight by her, heading for the drawing room. "Be so good as to inform your master that I am here, will you, Mildred, there's a good girl."

She stood there, gaping like a goldfish for a moment before hurrying after him. "But Mr. Holmes, sir...the doctor and the Missus said they were not to be disturbed tonight!"

"Then convey my apologies to them as you do so. But _now_, Mildred, if you please." Turning on reaching the centre of the room, Holmes fixed her with a gaze that brooked no argument whatsoever as he sat down and crossed his legs, his fingers beginning to thrum on the arm of the chair. At the tone of his command, the poor girl, who was already terrified of him in any case, practically dashed from the room and up the stairs.

His fingers drummed to the beat of the maid's retreating footsteps as he sat by the slowly dying fire in the hearth, trying once again to make sense of his baffling dinner engagement. This..._this_...was why he had sworn off women so long. Why he distrusted the sex so completely.

Their minds were like Daedalus's labyrinth -- twisting, tricky, unfathomable, and at the heart of it inevitably lurked a creature not wholly recognisable as human! They made no sense! There was nothing rational about them when their emotions were called into play. They could be gentle, sweet creatures for the most part...but rile their unstable emotions in any way and they could outwit, out manipulate, and generally shred a man who did not entirely have all his wits about him. And to be involved with one generally meant one's wits were automatically halved!

He had convinced himself that she might be different in this regard...that she might not be quite so given to over emotionalism. Her patience, intelligence, and quiet undemonstrative style had won him over and made his interest and ultimately his affection for her grow. Grow to the point where he had broken his own unwritten rule and allowed heart to rule head. And in doing so...in unleashing his own emotionalism, it seemed he had unleashed hers.

Under other circumstances, he could simply coolly and calmly ignore such an outburst, roll his eyes and walk away from it. But now he could not...would not even contemplate it because his own emotions were also engaged. Walking away from this meant walking away from her. And as much as his head might tell him that to do so was a wise thing, his heart was too much in command and his curiosity too aflame. What in Hades had gone wrong in the first place?

Why had he been so on edge? Why had she? And what on earth had he done to upset her so? Women and their effects were inscrutabilities he was most certainly not equipped to unravel. His fingers thrummed a little faster in impatience as he waited for the appearance of the one he hoped could tutor him in this regard.

"I really am sorry, sir!" came the voice of the maid as two sets of feet, one stomping, the other rushing, made their way down the stairs.

"Mildred...it is all right. Calm yourself," came a soothing, deeper reply, and a moment later the door opened as Watson entered the room. He looked very much as though he had been in bed, dressed in a nightshirt, slippers, and dressing gown, his hair mussed, and skin flushed a rather pale shade of pink. "Holmes, my dear fellow! Whatever is the matter? Mildred said you sounded most anxious that you should see me."

Standing immediately, Holmes pointed a long finger at his friend. "I shall tell you what the matter is, Watson. In one word I shall tell you...the matter, sir...is _women_!" he pronounced loudly, stripping off his overcoat. "The gender as a whole and tonight, one of their members in particular! That is what is the matter!"

His friend stared at him with a completely perplexed expression, having no idea what he was talking about. "You rushed down to Kensington to discuss...women?" he ventured.

"Tea, if you please, Mildred," Holmes ordered of the maid as if at home there before turning his gaze back to her master. "I came here to talk to you, Watson, as a proponent and architect of my particular downfall, about the utterly perplexing night I have just endured in the squiring of one Miss Helen Thurlow about town."

The doctor looked to his anxious maid and after giving her a quick nod, she dashed from the room to see to tea. Turning back to his friend, he caught sight of his hair in the mirror and quickly ran his hand through it to smooth it. "I take it, it didn't go well?" he enquired with a sigh.

"Your perceptiveness astounds me, Watson," Holmes returned as he paced around the room.

With a resigned air and aware that Mary was not the least bit thrilled at their being interrupted, Watson sat down in the armchair opposite his friend and consoled himself that at least she would be more sympathetic, knowing it was her good friend Helen's plight as well. "I think you'd better start at the beginning, Holmes," he said, forcing back another sigh.

Holmes crossed to the fireplace and back again. "As you know, I was delayed in my travelling to Berkley Square by our dealings with our client this afternoon. My late arrival was, it seems, to be the high point of the evening...in the event I was some fifty minutes or so behind schedule when I arrived."

"Which, of course, she was expecting," Watson stated with an affirming nod but then blinked at the blank expression on his friend's face. "The runner you sent?" he reminded him. "I saw you talking to one of the boys after we got back to Baker Street."

"Ah." Holmes nodded. "No, that had to do with our case. I required some immediate information and sent Max to seek it out for me."

Watson stared at him before closing his eyes momentarily and drawing a deep breath. "So…despite your history of leaving her to her own devices during your previous engagements or indeed not showing at all, you decided it was a fine idea to begin your new relationship by not informing her of your imminent delay?" He opened his eyes to look at Holmes, who frowned, fully aware of his own past deficiencies in that regard. "You apologised profusely, of course?"

"I apologised," he answered after a moment before adding quickly. "And explained!"

"Yes." Watson smiled weakly at him. "I can imagine. What of a gift and a compliment upon her appearance?" he enquired, already knowing the answer, which came in the form of silence. He shook his head. "I knew we should have talked more beforehand, Holmes; these are the very basics," the doctor commented, his voice soft as if explaining to a child.

Holmes bristled at the tone. "I am well aware of that, thank you, Watson. I merely fail to see the reasoning behind constant overt flattery in action or words and I…" he faltered a little, "am not well suited to commenting upon such things."

"Well…" the doctor said with a smile as he sat back and relaxed, "you will find that you must become so. I tell you now, reason plays little part in these affairs." Holmes frowned at that and made to answer, only to be stopped by Watson's upraised hand. "A small action and a few words pour oil upon the roughest waters, my friend. If you admire her, show her." He cleared his throat, the gleam in his eyes a little sly, knowing his friend's propensity for flattery himself. "We, _all _of us, enjoy our compliments, Holmes." He waved his hand at him. "Go on."

The detective crossly folded his arms but continued, "I greeted her and suggested we make haste for the removed restaurant in Holborn I had picked to avoid prying society eyes. I will admit to being a little tense as we set out...but this was borne, I believe, out of the heavy air of expectancy I encountered as soon as she met me."

"Expectancy?" Watson queried.

"Yes." His friend gave him a brusque nod. "Normally she is full of questions and queries, Watson, but tonight, not once did she ask me anything." His brow furrowed. "It was most unlike her. It was as if she was waiting for something."

"A bad case of nerves," Watson murmured and at Holmes's sharp look, gave him a smile of solidarity. "On _her_ part, of course," he assured him, never deigning to suggest that his friend might obviously have been anxious about the whole thing and allowed such a thing to become a weight upon him -- which it obviously had been. "Please continue."

Moving back to the fire, Holmes gazed down into it. "In any event, in order to keep the conversation going on the journey, I suggested we should once again begin to take up our old habit of attendance at musical events. As you know, we spoke of the need to keep her name from being associated with mine beyond friendship, for her own sake."

"Of course," Watson readily agreed before Holmes continued.

"Thanks to our past history of these outings, they afforded us another avenue of egress into public view as companions without inviting too much commentary. They were also to my mind, and I thought to hers, mutually pleasurable events." He leaned against the fireplace. "However, instead of the happy acceptance of the suggestion, the reminiscence on entertaining times past or indeed an alternate suggestion…I was suddenly confronted with the assertion that love should be the future of our relationship!" He threw a sharp gaze at the doctor. "How one leads to the other, I am quite at a loss to understand. She was quite vehement on the subject and I was, needless to say, quite confused by it all."

A slight frown crossed the older man's brow. "That does _sound_ like a leap," he concurred before standing and moving to the sideboard to pour himself a scotch, feeling the need for something more substantial than tea. "Drink?"

"Certainly," Holmes agreed quickly. "And so, after a little more silence on her part, we reached the Holborn Grill and were quickly seated. Things improved somewhat there."

"Well, that's good." Watson smiled a little, urging him on.

"We talked, and as we were eating, I was approached. I picked the Holborn in keeping with our cautious approach and the hope that we would not be disturbed. It is a quiet, middle class establishment, discreet and frequented mostly by businessmen with booths that obscure the outside viewer's vision well and mute the occupier's conversation excellently. But an old client of ours chanced upon us…you remember Richard Fortescue and that whole business with the Crystal Skull?"

"Yes, of course, fascinating case," Watson replied, bringing him his drink.

Holmes nodded in gratitude. "He was there entertaining a client. I was glad to see him but had no wish to expose Miss Thurlow to any undue speculation about the nature of our engagement. I greeted him, introduced them, and invited him to Baker Street so that you and I might talk further with him about how things have advanced for him." He took another sip of his drink. "He accepted, said his good evenings to us both, and retreated to his table. It was but a moment or two later that Miss Thurlow informed me that she was unwell," he told the doctor. "I, of course, immediately suggested that I take her home. However, I soon realised as we travelled and I tried to put her at her ease, that she was not ill at all, but angered!" He shook his head in bewilderment. "Angered! She would not speak so much as a word to me, Watson! And then when we arrived at Sir Nicholas and Lady Margaret Sotherby's, she bolted from the cab as if it was to be struck by lightning."

Watson frowned as he resumed his seat. "She did?" he asked, his mind now focusing on that conundrum. "So, she was well before Fortescue's arrival and upset after he left? What was said during the conversation? Did he say something to her that would upset her? How did you introduce her to him?"

"Fortescue said nothing untoward at all," Holmes answered with a shrug. "And I merely introduced one to the other, allowed him to believe through omission that we too were there on business."

"I see." The doctor frowned, leaning forward and finding this to be a puzzle. "I have to admit you do have me stumped. It doesn't sound like anything at all."

"Thank you!" his friend replied in happy vindication.

Watson grew mildly concerned, "Are you quite sure she really wasn't unwell?"

"At the rate she disembarked the carriage, Watson, she seemed fit enough to me to play in next summer's All England Tennis Championships at Wimbledon," Holmes remarked with some acerbity. Silence descended before he looked to the doctor again. "Well?"

Watson's crystal tumbler paused midway to his lips. "Well?" he echoed.

"Your diagnosis, Doctor," the tall man demanded.

His friend blinked. "You expect me to solve this little mystery?"

"It is _your_ field of expertise," Holmes insisted as he moved to sit.

The older man laughed. "Holmes, my field of expertise is _medicine_. No man is an expert in women and any one that says he is is an abject fraud and mountebank. I am as blind as the rest of us," he pointed out before allowing himself a small smile. "My touch is just a little surer."

Holmes issued a snort and putting aside his drink, folded his arms and crossed his legs. "Very well, Doctor, lay hands upon this matter," he challenged.

Starting to answer, Watson paused and took a swig of his scotch, swallowed, coughed and then replied, "I am at a loss, old man." He shrugged. "I can plainly understand her being peeved with you for not sending word ahead to let her know that you had not forgotten her and thought highly enough of her to let her know that she was in your thoughts. I can also understand her being aggrieved at your omitting to bring some token of your esteem or compliment her upon her appearance…" he ruminated.

A short impatient sound emanated from his friend across the room. "Yes, Watson, I both peeved and aggrieved her, but it doesn't explain what happened, does it?"

"Only in conjunction with something else," the doctor replied. "And it is that we appear to be missing. Let us apply some logic. Your evening had improved before the appearance of Richard Fortescue, correct?" he enquired to which Holmes nodded. "Then disimproved dramatically upon his withdrawal. So rationally, it follows that _that_ is our moment."

Holmes's brow creased. "I've told you everything that was said and why."

"Yes…" Watson nodded. "It really does seem odd. You moved him along as quickly as possible…and knowing as she does the need to proceed judiciously in terms of your public appearances, I confess I can find no fault there at all, Holmes. Unless it was that she found the subterfuge distasteful. Sometimes reality belies the idea of a thing," the doctor said thoughtfully before glancing back at his friend. "You are sure she was in full agreement with what you proposed."

"Completely. She agreed to it with little more than my initial suggestion that we proceed carefully and quietly upon our new course."

Watson, rising to open the door on hearing the clank of the tea tray, paused half way up, frozen in place as a dreadful thought occurred to him. "Following on from which, you discussed the situation further, correct?"

"No." Holmes gave him an amused glance at his odd stance as he moved to open the door for Mildred himself. "It was late and I was on my way back to London at that stage, and she had agreed readily enough, understanding the situation. I had spoken to her a time or two previously about the dangers of an association with a man in my profession; you were there as I recall. It _is_ a most obvious state of affairs, Watson," he reminded him. "So naturally, she was content to accept the idea of keeping our new status inconspicuous."

The doctor lowered himself back into his chair as Mildred hurriedly set out the tea things and left, remembering those times and how long ago they were. "Holmes?" he said quietly as the detective poured them both tea. "Did it occur to you that she may _not_ have understood the situation?"

Holmes, having not eaten for most of the day and with his dinner cut short, took a sandwich and some fruit cake upon his plate before resuming his own seat. "Understood? Of course she understood…she _agreed_, Watson."

"Yes…" his friend replied, "but to what?"

"Watson, you are wandering about in circles. The point!"

"What you said to her, Holmes," Watson said with a pained expression upon his face, "it could be construed as taking the _relationship itself_ quietly and carefully." Holmes's blank expression greeted him and another sigh escaped. "Not others' perceptions of it, but how the pair of you proceed _with each other_."

Holmes snorted and scoffed at the idea a moment before he lowered the sandwich in his hand back to his plate. "No." His voice was soft as he shook his head in disbelief at the idea of such a basic misunderstanding, but Watson's head nodded slowly in counterpoint to his own.

"Consider it, Holmes. It explains a great deal. The discussion in the carriage? How she responded to it? Her reaction to how you introduced her to Fortescue?" The older man reached for his tea and shook his head slowly. "Holmes, if I had to guess, I would suggest that you've both been talking at cross purposes the entire evening. While you were talking about appearing companionable and old habits as a means to proceed forward, she was perceiving it as a retrograde step in your attitude, nicely topped off with…"

"…my intimating to Fortescue she was nothing but a client," Holmes finished before falling silent. "But this is ridiculous!" he suddenly blazed, rising to his feet and putting aside his tea. "_How_ could she not have known what I meant?"

"Holmes," Watson said quietly, using his voice to bring his friend down from his frustration and incredulity, "you _do_ sometimes have a tendency to assume that people should naturally see and understand the things that you do. And that assumption is never more dangerous than when dealing with matters of the heart.

"A woman may be practical and pragmatic to a fault. But if she is involved in a love match, frequently her first thought will be for the wellbeing and maintenance of that match. Oft times, she wouldn't care if the hordes of Gog and Magog were bearing down upon her for her attachment to a man, as long as she knew that the tide of affection and esteem was returned in equal measure by him." He rose to his feet and crossed over to his friend to lay a hand upon his shoulder. "Helen is a loyal, brave, and loving woman…I dare say she would follow you in penury to Timbuktu and back as long as you cared for her."

"That may be comforting to know," Holmes huffed, "however, I remind you that any such journey would be conducted entirely in silence as evinced by her refusal to speak to me!" A small sound of disgust issued from him. "Believe me, Watson, never in all my life have I felt a quarter as off balance as I did tonight…and _you_ know I do not admit to such things lightly. Women…love…" he scoffed. "What was I thinking? I tell you now…if I could excise these traitorous emotions from my being I would!"

"No." Watson chuckled. "You _wouldn't_. That's why you're standing here with me, instead of walling yourself off in Baker Street. You," he said pointedly, "came here to find out how to fix this. You may be frustrated and annoyed, but you have no intention of walking away. There are a great many rules and lessons to be learned by you both, it would seem." The doctor shook his head. "And chief amongst them is to learn to talk, Holmes.

"Nerves, unbalance, and uncertainty of the sort you had tonight are all natural, but all of your problems tonight stem back to the same source. You will have to be a bit more forthcoming than you are used to...and learn to be comfortable with it. As for preventing it in the future?" He looked up at the tall detective with an almost beatific smile that belied the glint of near glee in his eyes. "Well…for that to occur…I'm rather afraid, Holmes, that you are going to have to learn how to think like a woman."

* * *

"But why would he do that?" Margaret addressed Helen from across the breakfast table, her knife and fork poised delicately over her kedgeree and sausage. Her friend went to answer but was halted as Margaret put down her cutlery and continued on, "You yourself told me once that Mr. Holmes never says or does anything without a reason…so why would this man, who at all previous times when you were out together never shied away from introducing you as a friend, suddenly decided to slot you into the category of client?" 

"Because he is ashamed of his own feelings," Helen answered in annoyance. "And ashamed of being with me."

The noble woman laughed. "Helen, men who are ashamed of the women they are with do _not _take them out in public." She gave her a knowing look. "They do not take them _out _at all."

Helen cleared her throat, her cheeks flushing a little as she turned her gaze away.

"Did you not think to ask him why?" her friend enquired with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy.

"I…thought it was obvious…" Helen answered. "I'm not entirely sure I still don't."

"Helen…if you are to continue on associating with men, you will simply _have_ to learn to start thinking like them. Admittedly it's not a difficult thing. They are simple creatures for the most part, driven by a childlike selfishness and a need for adoration and comfort," she added, placing her utensils down before dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "You will find it comes in handy. Even with as pointed a man as Sherlock Holmes."

Helen shook her head slowly, her eyes still feeling heavy from the weeping she had done the previous night. "I admit I don't understand it, Maggie, truly…last week before he left The Birches to return home, he seemed so willing…talking about how we should proceed."

"He did?" Margaret reached for the tea.

"Yes," the auburn haired woman confirmed with a nod. "He started to say that we…" Her voice froze in her throat.

"He…?" her friend prompted, pouring herself some more tea -- an action she ceased when a pair of wide grey eyes turned to her. "What is it, Helen?"

"Oh heavens, Maggie!" the young woman exclaimed, rising from her seat. "He wasn't talking about us…he was talking about how we appeared!"

Her friend's gaze upon her was protracted and unblinking, until she collected herself quietly and put the teapot down. Clearing her throat and smoothing down her dress, she gazed back at her friend. "I beg your pardon?"

The door opened to the breakfast room and Bronson stepped inside. "Excuse me, your ladyship, but Mr. Sherlock Holmes has arrived and is wondering if Miss Thurlow is at home?" His eyes turned to the auburn haired woman.

Helen's reaction was profound, spinning away from the table in a rustle of taffeta with panic in her eyes before she turned her eyes back to her friend.

"Helen," Margaret enquired, rising from her seat, "whatever is the matter?"

"Maggie, I fear I have just made the most amazing error. You were right, I _should_ have been thinking more like him." Her hand went to her forehead as she tried to collect herself. "Of course he would not think to suggest that we needed to be considerate in our dealings with one another! His emphasis was not emotional, but practical. He was being literal!" She threw her eyes to heaven. "He was talking about our need to be careful…he was talking about how we looked to others…everything he said before about the dangers of being deeply associated with him, that's what he meant by careful. Maggie, he was attempting to shield us."

The noble woman tried to follow her friend's rapid fire stream of consciousness before turning to Bronson. "Be so good as to show Mr. Holmes to the library, Bronson. Tell him that Miss Thurlow will be with him directly." She turned to Helen with a firm look, who swallowed and nodded. And with an incline of his head, Bronson left the two women to carry out his duties.

"Oh Margaret…I find myself in a horrendous dilemma. I hope to heaven I am right. But if I am right…" Helen sank back into her seat. "If I am right…my behaviour…what am I say to him?"

"I admit, Helen, I have not the slightest clue," Margaret replied, moving to her side. "Chiefly as I'm afraid I have not the slightest clue what you are talking about. However, you do…and so the best advice I can give you is to go and talk about it with someone who does." She held out her hand to her, and as Helen took it and stood once more, her friend sighed and gave her an affectionate smile. "One thing is certain, Helen, you both _are_ a pair."

* * *

Holmes, his hands once again clamped firmly behind his back, turned swiftly from his cursory perusal of one of the shelves of the long library of Sir Nicholas Sotherby to the door and young lady he had come to see. His eyes falling on her, he locked his gaze with hers a moment before their eyes moved apart -- hers to her feet, his to a point above her head, the air around them thick with apprehension. 

"Good morning," he said quietly. "Forgive my early intrusion upon your day. I hope I did not disturb you in the midst of something important."

Closing the door behind her, she crossed over to one of the couches and took a seat. "No, not at all."

"Good," he replied, taking in her body language and tone before moving to sit in a chair opposite her. "Then my early arrival was in fact well timed."

Stretching one long leg out in front of him as he leaned forward, he tapped his hand on his knee lightly a few times in silence, gathering his thoughts before drawing a deep breath. "I suppose it is best that I come straight to the point."

Helen nodded slowly.

"I owe you an apology," he told her, his tone soft but sure.

"No…I…" she started before pausing and reining herself in. "You do?"

"Yes. Several, in fact. First, I should have been more considerate in my dealings with you when I first arrived. I spent some time considering the matter last night after you…"

"Fled from you in a most uncivil and childish way?" she offered.

He blinked, a corner of his mouth turning up a little at her attitude, and found himself relaxing a little. "Not how I would have put it," he replied, for which he received a bashfully grateful smile. "My work," he continued, "is important. Tremendously so, but that does not give me licence for rudeness. I should have been more contrite for keeping you waiting…or at the very least informed you when it was clear I would be delayed. Believe me…" He stood and took three steps to the fireplace before glancing back at her. "It is not my intention to fall back upon _old habits_."

She looked up at him, noting his use of those particular words, their context nowhere near as threatening as they had been before. He inhaled softly before continuing, "Which brings me to the main thrust of the matter…it is clear that you were deeply angry with me when you left."

She winced a little and nodded helplessly, unable to deny it.

"I am not entirely sure, that this is the case, but I believe that the cause of your anger might be a conversation…"

"…we had at St. Albans?" she finished quietly.

He regarded her for a moment and she him. His tone was wry when he spoke. "I never meant to suggest anything save that we be cautious in our outward appearance to the world. Your words were confusing to me last night, but it seems we both understand now why that was. It is apparent we spent the evening together on entirely different paths. _Not _an auspicious start."

A stab of alarm ran through her at that final remark. She had spent the night convinced the entire affair had been a mistake and that she should be glad it was over before things had gotten even more complicated. Now, though…

"It is my fault, Sherlock," she said hurriedly. "I misconstrued your meaning and overreacted terribly. I know it was a poor start to our keeping company, a foolish mistake on my part."

"No," he interjected, taking several gradual steps to her side. "One of a series on mine." He sat down once again. "It was my place to make such an important issue clear to you, when you agreed I thought you had understood my meaning. I…have been told I presume a great deal with regards to others following my thoughts. I have also been informed that I need to converse more and…alter my thinking somewhat."

She held a small smile upon her lips at that, imagining who had been the deliverer of such news to her beau.

His confident and calm outward appearance belied his words. "I confess that which you have known for a long time...I am no lover...I have trained all my instincts so far away from such notions that I cannot now seem to find a way to access the kind of behaviour that other men, like Watson, seem to find so natural.

"I had been awaiting our dinner engagement for many days but when the time arrived, I found myself with a certain degree of unease about how I should behave...what I should do...what was expected of me."

He clasped his hands in front of him, steepling his fingers as he continued, "This…series of blunders…has highlighted to me that I cannot afford to make assumptions in this newly evolved relationship of ours..." His gaze was earnest as he looked at her. "Helen, I know a million facts, a thousand applications for most of them, and yet, I am a fledgling...a novice in this area. I cannot afford to blindly lumber forward without a map to guide me. I need guidance about what is expected of me...what you expect of me."

She nodded silently and looked down at her hands, folded in nervous tension in her lap. "You are not alone in shouldering the blame for what occurred last night. I allowed myself to become consumed by my own anxieties this week. After you were late, I let my own fears get the best of me and began to read unfavourable signs into everything that occurred. Labouring under a misapprehension the entire evening did not help."

"Understandable," he agreed with a nod. "But you may rest assured, Helen, while I hope my behaviour towards you is always friendly...being your friend and only that is not amongst my desires."

"That...that is good to hear," she replied, her tone soft but warm.

"I hope..." he intoned with equal softness, "that you will always keep that in mind. I am not an expressive man. There are many things I must learn to say...many things I would already wish to say but find them difficult to articulate..." Rising to his feet again rather sharply, he made his way to a bookshelf and with his back to her, fingered a leather-bound tome idly.

"I am, for instance, not used to giving ladies compliments on the attractiveness of their appearance. On the way their gowns flatter and suit them so well, or the way the soft ringlets of their hair frame their faces like burnished copper..." His back still turned to her, he fidgeted slightly at his roundabout way of paying her the compliment he had wanted to the previous night.

Her eyes widened, a warmth washing over her at his appreciation of her, and she found herself rather intrigued that it was her hair that got the most notice. Again, she felt rather silly for forgetting and not taking into account his personality, inexperience with women, and reserved nature. "Thank you," she replied.

"I can only hope," he said, still examining the books, "that should I fail to express these kinds of things sometimes in the future, you will realise that it is not because the esteem or value is not there...but rather because the fault that prevents me from doing so lies within me and not in that which I behold.

"Such value and estimation is why I raised the issue of our need to be careful and quiet in our proceedings in the first place." He turned back to face her. "I have said this to you before I know, but I reiterate, mine is a dangerous life.

"Watson is my friend but he, too, has come to share in that danger. Mrs. Hudson's home is also mine, putting her in jeopardy as well. And now...there is you. I felt, therefore, it wiser not to advertise the fact that you and I are courting. That is why I took you to a restaurant free of the usual society columnists, so we could avoid their speculations...and why I did not give a greater account of who you are to Richard Fortescue when he approached us."

Shaking her head, she met his gaze once more. "I deduced as much shortly before you arrived. And I cannot believe I did not do so before now. Of course, had I been more alert to your meaning, I would have gladly helped form a cover story of some sort." She paused. "You have mentioned it before, I know, but…do you really think your enemies might do that...come after someone who was not involved at all in their predicament?"

"The criminal mind is not above anything which it believes to be to its advantage," he replied with a nod. "And should they feel cornered or pressured by me, like a rat they may strike out at the most vulnerable point. Not me per se, for they know that my own life is dedicated to their capture and I have long ago accepted the risks that went with it. No, not me...but those I might inadvertently bring into the scenario. They could use them to make me back away from them...or use them as a warning."

She straightened and nodded. "Very well, then the knowledge of our relationship should be kept to the minimal number of people. My mother and brothers know, Mary Watson obviously, and of course, Nicholas and Margaret. I have not told anyone else and will refrain from doing so."

She paused, her tone becoming more firm and adamant. "Sherlock...if...if anyone tries to use me in some way to hamper you...don't let them. I will not be the cause of justice failing another. Promise me this."

His gaze was most serious as he looked upon her. "I will not allow you to be hurt," he told her. "But if I can help it, neither will I allow justice to be subverted by threats..._if_ I can help it," he warned.

She shook her head. "No...there are more important things in this world than my life. Justice is one of them. Please...I need to know that you will not let anyone use me as a deterrent."

"I can make no absolute promises, Helen. No one can," he answered before giving her a small smile. "You forget, I have already compromised on such an issue of safety over justice...as have you."

Her expression became even more solemn. "I know..." she said softly, her gaze haunted for a moment at the thought of the outcome of her father's death before she shook her head and smiled just a little. "Though it is rather gratifying that you place me so highly as to be worthy of such a compromise."

"Every man has his bargaining price," he said with a reciprocal smile. "I am wise enough to know when I have found mine."

Her cheeks flushed a light shade of pink as she nodded.

He held her look for a moment before standing and moving across the room to stand nearer to her, gazing down at where she sat. "So we are in agreement? For now, our involvement remains as private as we can make it."

Rising smoothly to her feet, she inhaled softly as his proximity and cologne made her senses tingle and her heart beat just a bit faster. "Very well," she agreed, her eyes meeting his...her mind swimming as she watched the light glint off the green and gold flecks in his hazel eyes. "Apart from those that already know...our...arrangement shall be a private one...for now."

After a moment's hesitation, he reached out and took her hand in his. "Thank you," he said, holding her soft small hand gently in his. "And thank you, too, for your patience with me, both now and in the future."

Her smile was gentle as she squeezed his hand. "I would also hope for your patience, should I misinterpret your intentions again," she returned, the touch of his hand creating a pleasant hum and tingle that washed over her skin.

"It seems we shall have to divert our inquisitive natures towards each other." His thumb brushed over the back of her hand. "If we do not understand each other or are confused or perplexed by our actions, let us apply a little rational logic to a fraught emotional situation and make a pact to ask, rather than merely blunder on. Data...it seems is always the key, even in matters of the heart."

Her smile widened as she nodded in agreement. "You and Maggie have a great deal in common." She chuckled. "She advised me to something similar just a few minutes ago. It does indeed sound the most appropriate course of action," she replied, her eyes continuing to take in his and feeling more relaxed at that moment than she had in weeks.

"Well then..." He released her hand. "Is there anything in particular you expect of me? Anything you would have me keep in mind?"

Her face grew thoughtful as she pondered that. "Well, apart from you keeping me more informed as to what your chain of reasoning is...just a word every now and then to let me know that I am still in your thoughts. Nothing grandiose...I know that is not your way. I suppose I like to know I am not alone in my hopes and feelings."

A slight smile touched his lips. "Yes…I was informed of that last night."

"John?" she enquired, her smile growing wider, and she chuckled as he nodded. "We shall have to start paying Maggie and John consultancy fees in the short term."

He loosed a sharp bark of laughter. "I fear you may well be right." He paused and glanced at the clock above the fireplace. "I must leave for Scotland Yard in a short time. I have some questions I must pose to Inspector Lestrade with regards to our newest case. But…I know of a small inn near Regent's Park that serves an early luncheon...should you come strolling past at, say, a quarter after one. As I recall, we did not finish our meal last night and it would prove an excellent place to continue this conversation."

"Regent's Park?" she enquired with a very pleased smile on her lips. "How odd…I was just of a mind to go for a stroll there."

"Then, Miss Thurlow," he said quietly, "let us walk there our separate ways in order to discover how it is we might better run on together."

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Greeting all! We're baaaack! (grins) Sorry for the long delay, but we had to take a little break, write some Snape fic, and relax a bit, but now we have returned with our promised fourth story. (dances) We hope that you all continue to enjoy this one as much as the others and stick with us through the trials and tribulations of a courting Sherlock Holmes and Helen Thurlow. We do have a Rules poster but due to spoilerish line we will not be posting it for the public until the story is half over. Sorry! Anyhoo, enjoy and thank you for reading and/or reviewing (please do...the bunnies love to be petted and given feedback). -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	2. The First Noël

**_Chapter Two: The First Noël _**

_20th December, 1889_

The trip of the foot was entirely effective.

All air exited Holmes's lungs as he fell hard upon the frozen cobbled narrow streets of the rookery of St Giles. As he lay gasping amidst the residue of rotten vegetables, fish, and meat from the few surrounding stalls, the laughter of the area's residents rang in his ears. It seemed the perpetrator of his sudden downfall was not alone in his poor opinion of the chasing detective.

Or at least of the company he was keeping.

His hat having disappeared into the forest of legs surrounding him, Holmes dragged himself upwards as the policemen accompanying him arrived by his side. Ignoring the enquiries after his healthfrom both Watson and the officers, he resumed the pursuit of his quarry while a hail of mockery and fruit rained down upon them.

"Leave us be, peelers!"

"Go home and cook your goose, Blue Bottles, before we does it for ya!"

In contrast, the bearded man ahead, his long sandy hair whipping behind him as he ran, received a chorus of encouragement. Cries of "Leggit it quick!", "Lead 'em a merry Yule dance, lad!", and "Nommus!" encouraged the man in his getaway. Why not give them all a laugh and a fillip in the face of the oppressive police and the law this Christmas season?

The crowds parted for the man and closed behind him, forcing Holmes and those with him to push through the suddenly oblivious denizens of the marketplace, who blinked at the raging policemen in surprise, apologized profusely, and eventually stepped out of the way. Every second of each little playlet pulled the man they were after further and further ahead.

"This is madness!" Watson yelled to his friend as they pulled clear of another knot of recalcitrant locals. His clothes rather the worse for a barrage of old cabbage and tomatoes, the doctor tried to catch his breath even as he addressed his friend. "We've got the leaders. Surely we can let the police hunt down the individual members?"

But Holmes was not listening. His eyes scanned the street in front of him before he darted forward and down a side alleyway, bursting through a door that led, not into a house, but down into a basement lit by a single mining lamp.

On joining him at the bottom, Watson and the pursing officers stopped by his side. Their panting breaths rose steam-like in the cold air as they stood and took in the basement that was, in fact, nothing of the sort. Instead of one self-contained stone room, each of the three remaining walls of the basement had a tunnel running off it, the stench of sewage and the dim glow of yet more mining lamps emanating from each of the three.

They all of them recognised it at once for what it was -- an entrance point to the Labyrinthine escape tunnels that ran underneath great swathes of the poorest areas of the inner city…and the most lethal part of the underbelly of London.

The moment Holmes made his move towards one of the tunnels, he found himself restrained not just by Watson but by the officer alongside of him.

"No, Holmes!" The doctor struggled to pull him back. "Don't! You yourself told me the kind of traps that lie in wait for a man in there. Even if you were to guess right as to where he went, by the time you pick your way safely through he'll be long gone! He's not worth it. He was just a foot soldier."

"No," Holmes replied as he gave up his attempt to move forward. "No, he was not. Or at least not for our gang of forgerers and swindlers." As those holding him released him, he turned and moved back up the stairs, a dark expression on his face.

Watson joined him above a moment later. "What do you mean?"

"I recognised his face," the detective answered, reaching into his overcoat to draw out his cigarette case and matches. Lighting up, he drew upon his cigarette as he composed his explanation. "From the case regarding _The Fenian Ram_."

His colleague's brow furrowed as he remembered the eventsfrom the previousJune involving an American funded submarine and an Irish rebel plot to exact revenge upon a traitor whom they had subsequently foiled. "Fenians?" he enquired with some confusion.

Holmes nodded. "You may recall I remarked that there was one of some invention and acuity who made an impression on me."

"Yes…" Watson agreed, his head bobbing slowly. "He escaped, did he not?"

"He did. And given the outcome of this chase, it is something he is obviously adept at."

"But why would Irish rebels be involved with a group swindlers and forgers?" the doctor asked the air in general. "They are idealists and are well funded from abroad."

"Precisely. If this is what it appears to be, then there has been a significant sea change in the attitudes of those rebel cells working here in England towards working with the criminal classes. And I remind you that this is not just any group of swindlers, Watson," Holmes said to him as the officers behind them emerged and they all began to walk back to where the chase had begun. "Our client, Mr. Swaine, was quite correct in his summation of them as 'the most sublime collection of artistes and confidence tricksters ever gathered.' Men of notable talent, taste, and social graces…able to move in polite society, even if they do place their headquarters in the most squalid of environs. These men would be many things, but inclined towards helping rebels would not be one of them."

Holmes inclined his head in polite acknowledgement of a rather foul diatribe by an elderly fruit seller and returned to addressing his friend. "Something has influenced their thinking and brought them together." He sighed on spotting the remains of his black silk hat, gleefully battered flat by the antagonistic crowd, and amidst a sea of smirks, bent down to scoop it up. "I shall have to think on this further," he commented upon the odd alliance they had stumbled across as he gazed ruefully at his crumpled hat.

Watson nodded as they approached an old fishmongers and a fleet of Black Marias outside of it that were currently being filled by the police with an odd assortment of the richly dressed and the artisan set. Watching with some satisfaction as the bulk of this coterie of criminals was being led away, the doctor turned to his friend. "And knowing you, you shall think on it a great deal, I'm sure…but do take care to remember your other obligations in the meantime, Holmes."

The younger man flicked away the remains of his cigarette and pulled up his collar against the chill of the December air, his eyes upon those sullenly being incarcerated in the police vans. "If you are referring to my Christmas Day appointment in Hertfordshire, Watson, then you need fear not. As promised, I shall be on the early afternoon train as soon as the service begins to run again." He glanced at his friend. "Providing nothing urgent rears its head in the meantime."

"Of course." Watson chuckled as the two men began to walk towards the carriage they had arrived in. "Let it never be said that Sherlock Holmes shirks his mission to vanquish the criminal element even on Christmas Day."

"Especially on Christmas Day," Holmes corrected him, opening the door while their carriage driver chased away a group of ragged children determined to find a way to get a free ride on the back of the brougham.

Watson gave him a pained if good natured look after they had settled into the cab. "Do_ try_ to get there, Holmes. It'll do you good to be otherwise engaged for a while…" He peeled an old cabbage leaf from his shoulder with a look of extreme distaste. "And a great deal more importantly, it'll do _me_ good!"

* * *

_25th December, 1889_

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," the Thurlow family's butler, Goodwin, greeted him with cheery reserve upon opening the wreathed door. "Would it be in order to wish you season's greetings, sir?"

"Thank you, Goodwin," Holmes acknowledged with a nod of his head, the hansom cab that had brought him to the house pulling away behind him as he climbed the short number of steps to the entrance. "And to you, of course. I trust everyone is at home and well?" He looked past him into the cheerily garlanded and lit interior of the house on this dark Christmas Day.

"Indeed, sir." The butler nodded, silently offering to take the carpet bag Holmes carried, which he was duly allowed to do. "The family are in the drawing room partaking of egg nog, mince pies, and Mrs. Reggie's cinnamon Christmas biscuits." He stepped aside to allow the detective entry, before closing the door after them. "Miss Thurlow asked that some mulled wine be put on in advance of your arrival...and has also purchased a particularly fine selection of brandy and whiskey for your usage. A hot toddy perhaps, sir? It is a mite chilly."

Holmes drew off his scarf and hat, putting the former in the latter. Dropping his gloves in afterwards, he handed the lot to the butler. "Yes..." He thought on it, unbuttoning his coat to reveal his morning suit, cravat, and matching waistcoat. "I believe that would be eminently acceptable, Goodwin, thank you."

After dealing with the guest's belongings, Goodwin led him towards the drawing room, before knocking lightly and opening the door to step inside to the family. "Excuse me, Mrs. Thurlow, Miss Thurlow. Mr. Holmes has arrived."

As her brothers entertained themselves in an unusually quiet manner on the floor by the fire, Helen rose from the card table where she had been playing with her mother. Her face remained carefully composed, but there was no denying the pleasure in her eyes. "Very good, Goodwin. Please show him in."

Holmes stepped inside, his hands clasped behind his back as he looked around at the family. It had been quite a while since he had spent Christmas with a family, and the last time did not inspire enjoyable memories. Still, he reminded himself, the Thurlows bore little resemblance to _that_ particular family.

"A Merry Christmas," he greeted them, his gaze moving over them all before resting at last with Helen, who moved swiftly to his side, her deep green velvet dress whispering around her.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she returned, her eyes shining as she looked up into his.

His lips curled softly upwards. "Helen," he greeted her in a quieter, more personal manner, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he turned to her mother and inclined his head respectfully. "Mrs. Thurlow."

"Joy of the season to you, Sherlock," Alice returned and beckoned to the twins, who were watching Mr. Holmes with curious and somewhat gloomy eyes. Moving across to her in their Christmas best, the pair stood either side of her as they watched their sister with her new beau.

"Boys, a happy Christmas to you," he greeted them, wondering at their air. "Are you enjoying the day...and what St. Nicholas has brought you?"

"We have not seen what he brought us," Matthew replied in a somewhat sombre tone.

"Oh?" their guest enquired. "And why is that?"

"We were told we must wait for you," Andrew answered, the quiet serious reply puzzling the detective even more.

Holmes's brow flickered slightly. "Indeed? Well, I have no wish to hold up such an important part of the day. And I have taken the liberty of bringing a few small gifts to add to those left to you by St. Nicholas."

The boys looked at each other before Matthew turned his gaze back to their guest. "That is very kind of you, Mr. Holmes. Thank you," he said politely, though neither of the boys seemed to perk up much. Holmes's querying eyes turned to Helen when the boys' attitude did not improve greatly.

She sighed a little and gave him an apologetic look. "That is most kind of you, Sherlock...and what a splendid idea. Boys, would you like to be the parcel givers this year?"

The boys exchanged another glance. "Yes, Helen," Matthew informed her almost dutifully, and together they moved towards the brightly lit tree, the candles flickering in their holders. Kneeling down on the ground by the parcels, they began to sort through the gaily wrapped gifts.

While Holmes moved to the bag Goodwin had left by the door, Helen bit her lip worriedly at her brothers' manner, something she had been fretting over for the past week, ever since she had announced the identity of their guest for Christmas dinner…and it had proven not to be whom they had hoped for. Patting her daughter's hand, Alice led her over to the couch, where Helen managed a small smile in return of her mother's own sympathetic one.

"And how has your day been thus far, Sherlock?" Alice enquired genially once Holmes had taken a seat opposite, leaving the boys on the floor between them. "Have you spoken to the Watsons today?"

"Not today, Mrs. Thurlow," he told her. "They left yesterday evening to begin a short Christmas sojourn at rented and catered accommodation in the Cotswolds. As for myself, today has mostly been spent in preparing for the journey here. As you know, travel on Christmas Day is somewhat cumbersome with the trains not running till after services are over."

"Indeed, I do understand. And we are very pleased you were able to grace us with your presence. I suspect Helen even more so than I," she informed him with a mischievous twinkle in her large amber eyes.

"We are _all_ pleased to have you here." Helen's cheeks flushed, though she did not deny the sentiment.

"I was, of course, gratified to receive the invitation." The small smile returned to his lips.

"You are always welcome at our home, Sherlock," Helen said, her tone soft and shy.

Before Holmes could respond, Andrew added without looking up from sorting the parcels, "There was a space at the table anyway." Alice's eyes shot over to the boy as his elder sister flinched.

"This one is for you, Helen," Matthew informed the young woman, his words slipping across his brother's as he held out a gift. "From your Mama, it says."

"Thank you, Matthew," she replied. "And thank you, Mother," she added, taking the gift and swallowing back a residual twinge of guilt at how her choice to end her relationship with William Edwards had impacted upon her brothers. She had broken the news to them two weeks previously, when their questions about his prolonged absence had become too difficult to avoid. It had been done in the rather forlorn hope that they might simply accept it…but William had made a strong impact on their young lives and they missed him dreadfully. Never more so than now, for all three of them had been making plans for Christmas, and now he was gone. Because of her. But more worryingly for her, she knew they placed some of the blame for that at her new beau's door.

Sherlock was many fascinating things to them. But friend, playmate, and father figure were not amongst them. They had, of course, not spent as much time with him as they had with William but for the moment, they did not feel as if they had traded equally at all. She had hoped they might have come to terms with it by now, but this Christmas Day had only seemed to exacerbate William's absence.

"This one is for you, Matthew." Andrew smiled a little as his brother resumed his place before leaning into him and whispering the rest. Matthew's eyes widened and Andrew nodded quickly. With a grin, the boy pulled open the paper to reveal the book below.

"Mr. Kipling!" He bounced in glee. "It's just what I wanted!"

Helen blinked, her brow furrowing in curiosity. "Who gave that to you, Matthew?"

Matthew looked up at her, his smile dropping immediately from his face and his hold tightening on the book. Helen's frown deepened at her brother's reaction. "It's just a book, Helen," he said in a small voice.

"Matthew...your sister asked you a question," Alice coaxed softly, but her tone was firm.

Matthew frowned, unwilling to answer at first, then dipped his eyes. "It's from Captain...Major...Edwards," he replied as Goodwin entered with Holmes's hot toddy. Taking it, the guest nodded his thanks before returning his attention to what was going on around him, including the sight of Andrew moving another gift behind himself surreptitiously.

"Andrew," came the swift command from the Thurlow matriarch, stilling the boy's movements though he looked at Alice with determinedly innocent eyes. Her eyebrow arched at him, her gaze told him in no uncertain terms she knew exactly what he was up to and that he should not even bother to hide it.

"It's just a present," Andrew said plaintively as Alice's intent gaze remained on him.

"Is there a difficulty, ma'am?" Goodwin asked, looking from the boys to the women, concern for his 'charges' sneaking through despite his mostly effective attempt to mask them.

"Matthew," Helen began, again pushing back the guilt and the clear embarrassment that this was happening in front of her new beau. "It isn't really proper to keep it..."

"It's not fair!" Matthew retorted in an uncharacteristically loud voice as he rose to his feet, his face crumpling. "He gave them to _us_! We don't want to give them back, Helen," he continued without drawing breath. His eyes turned to his brother, who picked up the gift he'd been attempting to hide and with a nod, stood up to join him. "We liked William! We liked him lots! He was our friend!"

Andrew joined in. "And you liked him! He was fun...and we wanted him to come for Christmas." He glanced quickly at Holmes. "We even made him gifts!" he protested.

"He gave us these 'cause he liked us too. We don't want to give them up...just because you..." Matthew started before stopping suddenly, his head drooping.

Andrew slowly did likewise. "It's not fair," he echoed his brother, not only talking about the gifts but the loss of the man they had come to adore. Surprised by the boys' outburst, Holmes sat back slowly, lowering his eyes and his hands folding in his lap as he masked his discomfort.

Helen, however, showed no such inclination towards masking her emotions, and her displeasure at their behaviour was writ large as she rose from her seat. "I will speak to you both outside." The order was curt as she swept towards the door and opened it. "This _instant_."

Leaving her mother to entertain Holmes, and once the door was firmly closed behind them, she turned to the boys, who had been ushered out by Goodwin, the butler now standing quietly to one side.

"If it were not for the fact that today is Christmas Day I would have no hesitation in sending you to bed without your dinner," she said with an icy anger that made them flinch and drop their heads. "I have given you boys a deal of leeway in your behaviour in an effort to encourage you to a freedom of expression…but you have overstepped the mark! I see I should have taken a firmer hand with you. How dare you embarrass us in front of a guest like that. You boys are Thurlows and though you are young, you have a duty and an obligation to be hospitable to _all_ guests under your roof. If you are not, and if anything like this should ever occur again, I shall see to it that you are punished most severely. Am I understood?"

Helen inhaled quietly as both boys nodded hurriedly. Folding her hands in front of her, she reined in her anger. "No...it is not fair that you should have to return your gifts. Something I was about to agree with had I been _allowed _to speak." She eyed them both. "Though you scarce deserve them after today, you may both keep your gifts. I know that William would still like you to keep them no matter what has occurred between him and me. You were both good friends with him...and he with you. You cared about each other. And I cared for him too. And though you may not believe it, I do miss him greatly. But sometimes things do not run smoothly between men and women the way you would like them to. I hurt a good man...and that shall ever haunt me. But Mr. Holmes and I are walking out together now, and I have every hope that we shall continue to do so.

"Now unless my memory serves me ill, I seem to recall that you both liked _him_ too. I would appreciate your both refraining from moping any more today; please give our guest all the respect he is due and try to give him a chance." She paused to watch both boys glance at one another sheepishly, and her voice grew quieter as it took on an explanatory tone. "Boys…liking Mr. Holmes will do no disservice to what you felt about William at all."

They held onto their presents tightly and nodded. "Yes, Helen," they chorused as their eyes dipped back to the floor.

"Now…I expect you both to write Major Edwards a thank you letter."

Andrew looked up at her tentatively. "Will you be writing to him too?"

"Yes..." She sighed and nodded. "But it will accompany any gifts he may have left me. Though I'm sure it is fine for you both and Mother to keep yours...it would not be so for me." Having heard from Nicholas that William was bound for India at the start of January, she knew it was most likely the last correspondence she would ever send to her former suitor and that she would probably never see him again.

In the slight lull, Goodwin moved closer to the siblings. "Perhaps, Miss..." he suggested quietly, "if the gift giving may resume a little later, I could take the boys to the kitchen so they can help insert the coins into the plum pudding."

With a grateful smile at the butler, she nodded. "That sounds like an excellent suggestion, Goodwin," she agreed before she turned back to the boys. "And perhaps when you both return, we can all start anew?"

As usual the boys checked with each other before they nodded to their sister and moved rapidly to Goodwin's side, their hands slipping naturally into his. With a small bow to his mistress, the butler led them down the hallway, leaving Helen to return to her guest.

"Yes, Christmas in France was somewhat different," he was saying to Alice as her daughter re-entered. "Montpellier was a deal warmer to start."

"Indeed," Alice agreed, "a beautiful medieval city. I passed through there once on a tour of Southern France. We stopped and lunched at La Promenade Royale du Peyrou. It was quite charming." Glancing up at her daughter and the rather agitated look in the young woman's eyes as she regarded Holmes, Alice rose to her feet. "If you will excuse me for a moment? I would like to check on the progress of dinner."

Holmes rose from his seat as she did. "Of course." He nodded, and with a smile, she swept from the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Helen turned to her beau, her expression intensely apologetic. "I...I am deeply aggrieved you had to witness that, Sherlock. But in truth, I've been expecting it these last three weeks. They've had a hard time dealing with...what happened." She sighed. "Now, deprived of his presence, I think they are more angry at_ me_ than anyone."

He gave her a tight smile as he clasped his hands behind his back. "They are young boys...and act only on what they want and wish for. It is merely the case that this Christmas they did not receive what they hoped for after all," he said with a fair amount of self deprecation.

"I am sure that is not it!" she insisted. "They enjoy your company as well, and have so on many occasions previously. They simply need to understand that to do so once again is not a betrayal of what they felt with Major Edwards. Give them a little time, I'm sure they will come around." She touched his arm as she moved just a little closer. "St. Nicholas brought me the best present of all this year...and I shan't be returning it. Besides..." Her eyes twinkled. "It would no doubt be difficult for me to receive a refund or part exchange on such problematic merchandise."

He glanced down briefly at her hand on his arm before his eyes once again found hers. He huffed softly in amusement. "I doubt I shall ever be to them what he might have been," he told her. "But boys are resilient. I know from the most unfortunate experience of having been one. They will come around to a more affable demeanour."

A smile tugged at her lips. "I'm positive they will," she confirmed, her shoulders relaxing in relief before realising she was still holding his arm. Pulling back her hand, she waved it instead at his seat. "Please...do sit down. Enjoy your drink," she insisted.

He waited until she was once again seated before he did so himself. Taking up his drink, he examined it quietly, turning the glass around and peering at the sweetened heated whiskey closely.

"You have been working on a case. In fact…" Helen observed as she scrutinised him closely, "I believe it to be resolved…no…not resolved…but almost."

"Indeed?" he enquired as his eyebrows rose a little. "And what brings you to that belief, Miss Thurlow?"

Her smile was slow as she placed a cushion behind her and sat back. "Nothing exceptional, I confess…merely a few obvious things in your manner that I have come to note over the time we have been acquainted. There is a certain animation about you when a case is newly undertaken. An obvious distraction to the world and its surrounds, when your case is proving problematic or is nearing its resolution…and in the immediate aftermath of its conclusion, a sanguine air of relaxed satisfaction when everything about you seems to you to be a little brighter and more tolerable than before -- an air very much like the one you are exhibiting at the moment." Her brow furrowed just a little. "Except…"

"Except?" he enquired, placing his drink down upon the side table beside him.

"Except…like the drink you were examining so intently…there is still the merest hint of distraction mixed in with your relaxation. Something still troubles you?"

He regarded her silently for a moment before his own smile slipped over his lips. "Merely a question that floated to the surface in the flotsam of the case…something I did not expect to come across. It is most probably of little relevance or consequence." He glanced towards the window in thought. "It is decidedly cold out today...and dark," he ruminated absently. "Let us hope it will not snow...for if it does I may be forced to leave prematurely."

Her brow furrowed a little in disappointment at that, but she nodded all the same. "Of course...though I am sure that the inn in town will have a few rooms if the weather becomes too treacherous."

"Hopefully so...but if not, it is Christmas after all, and I'm sure I'll find somewhere if there is no room at the inn," he remarked, his lips tugging upwards.

She smiled in return. "Well...we _do_ have a barn..."

He laughed quietly. "Heavens forefend. If Watson were to find out…well…let us just say that he _already _accuses me of a near divine belief in my own abilities." He took another sip of his drink. "Your dress is a most becoming shade of green," he confided a moment later.

Her smile widened as he followed up on his promise to try and be more forthcoming. "Thank you," she replied, her gaze taking in his own attire, a look on him that she had always found most attractive. "And you are most dashing in your morning suit."

"One must make the effort...for the day," he answered, the pause noticeable.

Her gaze was deeply affectionate as her eyes met his. Though as she made to reply, the door opened and Alice re-entered the room. Holmes rose up from his seat once more but with a wave of her hand, the matriarch bade him to resume his place as she took her own place on the couch, perceiving the very comfortable atmosphere that existed both within the room and between the two people she'd left within it.

"I have heard you are doing sterling work for charity, Mrs. Thurlow. Your daughter sings your praises." Holmes looked to Helen. "She is much the admirer."

"And she is a great help when she is able," Alice agreed, taking her daughter's hand and squeezing it. "She has aided with a few fundraisers and comes with me on some of the trips I make to the mission. We are very proud of her. She has a great deal on her shoulders and truth be told, I was rather worried about her last month, that she was taking on too much, but she seems much more relaxed and happy these past two weeks...and for that I thank you, Sherlock."

"You are too generous, madam." He inclined his head. "Especially as your daughter has no doubt told you of our spectacularly good first evening out together...as ladies tend to do."

She inclined her head in affirmation. "Indeed...but one must crawl before one can walk. There are always some mishaps when two people get to know each other or when a relationship progresses. I remember Helen coming home over a year ago, utterly aghast that she had offended a young man by telling him his rooms were cluttered." She chuckled lowly. "And yet...here we are."

"So it would seem." He smiled, remembering the event in question as his gaze met her daughter's. "Albeit by a rather circuitous route."

Alice's eyes drifted from him to her daughter. "No one on this earth is perfect. We all make mistakes...but do so in order to learn and grow and hopefully become a little wiser. But with a little luck and God's guiding hand, we get where we need to be in the end."

* * *

At precisely four o'clock that afternoon, darkness having fallen with the gaslight low and the dining room ablaze with candlelight so that everything glittered beautifully, Goodwin carried in the large plump goose. The fowl, roasted to perfection and surrounded by a circlet of crisped roast potatoes, was placed at the head of the long, elegantly set dining table amidst the cornucopia of freshly prepared vegetables in their tureens. 

Helen rose to her feet and taking the carving knife and fork, looked over to their guest. "Sherlock...would you care to do the honours?" she offered with a shy smile. Looking up at her, he took his napkin and placed it on the table as he stood with an incline of his head.

Drawing the bird towards him, he carefully gauged the job that lay before him and proceeded to dissect the bird with an expert hand, passing out the slices for those who wished white meat, the wings and legs for those who cared for dark.

Returning Helen's smile quietly, he seated himself again, watching as the boys took something of everything, their eyes shining as they piled their plates ridiculously high. Their sister regarded them with amusement, but reminded them in the firmest of tones that they would be expected to eat whatever they took onto their plates.

Suddenly looking a little green himself, Andrew gazed with regret at the copious amount of brussels sprouts he had placed onto his plate. "All of them?" he asked as he gave his sister a worried look.

The corner of her mouth twitched. "Perhaps you would like to rethink your portion size?"

"But it's not all for me," he told her in no uncertain terms.

"Oh?" she enquired. "And who else would be eating off your plate? I know the cats do not favour brussels sprouts." She paused. "Nor does your turtle."

Frowning deeply, Andrew nodded before raising his chin with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. "The rest is for baby Jesus," he replied firmly, sticking his fork into a succulent piece of goose. "For his birthday."

Helen stared at the boy while beside her, Holmes wiped his mouth with his napkin to hide his amusement. "Baby...Jesus?" she finally managed to articulate.

Andrew nodded, chewing happily on his fowl. "Yes. They told us in Sunday school that he loves all little things. Even baby plants...like seedlings and sprouts!"

One could almost swear Holmes snorted into his wine, though, of course, it was only a light cough. Alice wiped her mouth delicately, no trace of a smile on her lips, though her eyes were positively dancing in amusement as her daughter again stared at the child, shocked into speechlessness.

Matthew kept eating, watching the goings on closely as he fed his extra food to the cats congregated under his feet while everyone else was concentrating on his twin.

"Baby Jesus likes sprouts," Andrew concluded. "So there's extra for his birthday."

"Quite logical," Holmes agreed as he put his glass down.

Helen took a long breath and fought back the urge to laugh. "Andrew, darling, when they said in Sunday school that Baby Jesus watched over the sprouts...they did not mean brussels sprouts. They meant the baby plants that were sprouting in the gardens. Young plants are often called sprouts as opposed to brussels sprouts, which are adult plants and harvested for eating." As she explained, her eyes glanced over to Matthew and saw him sneak a piece of goose under the table. "And, Matthew, do not think that I cannot see exactly what you are doing."

"But it's Christmas for cats too, Helen!" the boy protested lightly.

"And they will be nicely fed by Goodwin with the giblets...not with your dinner," Helen returned, her tone brooking no argument.

Andrew's brow had furrowed into a deep ridge as he stared at the round green vegetables, poking them with his fork. "Not sprouts?" he asked. "So Jesus doesn't like them?"

"I'm sure he did when he walked among us on the Earth," his sister told him sympathetically. "However, since he is now residing with his father in Heaven...he has no need to eat your brussels sprouts...though I'm sure he appreciates the gesture." Her lips quirked again.

"Jesus couldn't have liked brussels sprouts when he walked on the earth, Helen," Matthew informed her. "Brussels wasn't discovered then so they couldn't have sprouts."

Andrew's eyes widened. "So he _didn't _like sprouts!" He stared at his plate as if it had done him a great wrong. "If Baby Jesus doesn't like them, then I don't like them either," he announced. "I shan't be eating any sprouts today, Helen."

Her mouth opened to retort that he indeed would, but then closed again in exasperation, not quite knowing how to argue the toss with him.

"It is just as well then," Holmes's voice drew their attention, "that what you are eating are not brussels sprouts."

Andrew blinked and looked at the vegetables. "They're not? They look like them."

"Ah," said Holmes, slicing up the goose upon his plate methodically, "that is exactly the key. For you see, these vegetables are quite cunning and possess a clever defence mechanism. They disguise themselves as brussels sprouts which...of course...nobody wishes to eat because the baby Jesus did not like them," he concurred with the boy in all seriousness. "They do so, so they will not be eaten themselves." Pouring himself some more wine, he held up his glass. "If you look closely you will see little golden flecks. These mark them out not as brussels sprouts, but as Jerusalem Blossoms which were regarded as a great delicacy in ancient times."

Both boys stared at him and then at the vegetables wide-eyed. "_Disguising_ vegetables?" Andrew breathed in amazement. With another look at each other, they silently concurred that it must indeed be true because Mr. Holmes was, by common consent amongst them, the smartest person _ever_.

"Perhaps, Helen," Andrew said slowly, "I _shall _eat my Jerusalem Blossoms after all." He speared one and held it up with fascination.

Helen, who was, like her brothers, staring at her beau, nodded slowly, entirely flummoxed and stupefied by the entire occurrence.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea, Andrew," Alice said, smoothly picking up her daughter's role to allow her time to recover. "Let us all eat our Jerusalem Blossoms."

Holmes sipped on his wine lightly as the two boys commenced to eat their vegetables with uncommon relish. Every bite was treated as a vindication of their smartness at being able to see past the vegetable's ingenious disguise. It was doubtful so many sprouts were ever downed in one sitting as occurred then.

As their plates were cleaned to near spotlessness, Helen's eyes again moved over to regard her beau, sheer admiration in her gaze as a happy smile crept slowly over her face.

Finishing off his own meal, Holmes lay down his knife and fork and looked to her. "A wonderful dinner, thank you."

"Yes, Helen," Andrew gushed. "It was corking. Especially the Jerusalem Blossoms. They were much tastier then brussels sprouts."

"Yes," Matthew agreed. "No wonder they disguised themselves."

"Then we shall have to give our respects to Mrs. Reggie, won't we?" Helen replied as she finished up her own meal. "And let her know what an excellent job she did with the goose and vegetables...especially the incognito Jerusalem Blossoms."

"We can tell her after pudding!" Andrew announced, kicking his legs eagerly at the thought of the desert. Helen's eyebrow arched at the boys. Seeing as they had both just devoured enough to fill two grown men apiece, she wondered how they would find room for pudding as well. Ringing the bell, she turned to her mother with a smile, pleased with how the meal had progressed and how the boys were again warming to her suitor.

Following desert, which for the boys lasted precisely two mouthfuls, the twins were excused and ran back to the drawing room to await the adults and resume the opening of their gifts.

Alice watched them go with barely contained amusement. "I believe that is a first," she commented with a chuckle as soon as the door was closed.

"A first?" Holmes enquired, finishing his dessert.

"Oh yes," Helen replied. "They normally complain they are full with their dinners and then manage to devour three helpings of afters." She shook her head. "Plus getting them to simply eat half their vegetables is an exercise in bribery. The fact they ate them all is astounding."

A small smile touched his lips. "I see...well, when dealing with active imaginations, I find the best way to appeal to any part of another person, man or child, is to tweak that imagination. Chameleonic vegetables that purposefully disguise themselves seemed to carry just the right note of intrigue and awe, as well as tweaking the dogmatic cussedness of the child to eat precisely what they should not or what does not wish to be."

"And it was brilliantly played," Helen agreed. "You are a devious man, Mr. Holmes."

"The vice does have its advantages…even for less obvious situations. I must admit it was possibly the most stimulating Christmas conversation I've heard in some time."

Helen took a sip of her wine. "You must come for dinner again soon…perhaps when we are next having liver?"

He chuckled. "I would be glad to. Thank you." He inclined his head towards her. "And when you are in London...I should perhaps return the favour...to you all...by taking you to Simpson's...or the Savoy."

Helen found herself again glancing at her mother, knowing that she still generally did not like being in crowded areas for too long, but was relieved to find her smiling and nodding. "Thank you, Sherlock," Alice replied. "That is most kind of you."

"Now..." he said, "I believe there is still the important matter of two young men who have not as yet received their gifts from St. Nicholas...and others who have yet to receive theirs from more earthly sources." He looked at Helen with a small smile.

"Of course," she agreed, rising to her feet, her mother following suit as she rang the bell. "Let us repair to the drawing room."

Ten minutes later, the drawing room was awash with paper, the boys eagerly playing with train sets, toy rifles, boat building kits, and a myriad other such gifts. While mother and daughter watched them, Holmes quietly handed Helen a small parcel. Taking it with a soft smile, she handed him a slightly larger parcel that she had secreted under the couch earlier in the gift giving. With a soft word of thanks, she turned her attention to opening the paper.

Inside was a small box, which when opened presented Helen with a pair of elaborately tooled gold earrings in the shape of delicate flowers. At the centre of each one was one small emerald stone. Her hand rose to her mouth as she stared at the jewellery. "Oh...my!" she breathed, her eyes wide as they met his. "They're beautiful!"

"The job was a fine one," he admitted. "But they are probably worth more to you as a sentimental piece than as expensive jewellery. Each stone was taken from an earring given to me as a memento in gratitude by young Susan St. John. She visited me at Baker Street with her family not long after her rescue from the factory in the Becker affair." He glanced at the earrings. "It was a sweet gesture, but having them sitting in my desk drawer seemed a waste. Then when you and I undertook to..." He paused. "Well…it seemed more fitting that they should be worn. And worn by someone who had an equal right to young Miss St. John's thanks." He sat back. "So I had the stones removed and placed in bigger settings. The colour seemed suitable for you."

Helen's eyes shone, and it took everything within her not to give into the strong emotional surge moving her to take the two steps needed to embrace him. Her heart was in her eyes as she swallowed and whispered, "Then I shall treasure them always...both for the remembrance and for you kind thoughts. Thank you, Sherlock. I love them."

He inclined his head with a small smile, his intense satisfaction emanating quietly from him at her approval before he distracted himself by opening her gift in turn. Inside was a small box, which when he opened it revealed a silver and delicately etched cigarette case.

"Helen," he said, admiring the case and the work on it. "It's a fine piece of work." Taking it out, he opened it. Inscribed within in elegant script was -- _S. Le premier Noël. H._

Helen watched him with no small amount of trepidation, having found it hard to settle on the most apropos inscription. They had been walking out together for only two weeks, and it had been only a week ago when she had bought it. She didn't want to sound as if she expected too much so soon...but wanted it to be personal. In the end, she had chosen to have it said in French as a nod to her former role...and the words would not be too misconstrued were the wrong person to find the case, should it ever be lost.

He gazed down at the inscription, simple yet filled with a world of meaning. A future that could spread out before them filled his imagining for a fleeting moment, until he snapped the case shut. "Thank you, Helen. It is a gift I shall treasure," he told her sincerely, his eyes flickering away from hers, somewhat embarrassed at letting her see how the dedication had taken him out of himself so. "Truly."

Her shoulders relaxed, the tension dissipating as rapidly as it had grown, and she gave him a relieved and happy smile. "You are very welcome. I'm simply pleased you like it."

He slipped it inside his interior jacket pocket. "You may rest assured that I do." But as he moved to look at her again, the nascent smile forming upon his lips died.

Outside the window, in the dark, white flakes could be seen falling slowly.

"Sherlock?" Helen enquired, the tension in her body and face returning instantly, her expression a picture of worry.

"I'm rather afraid it is time for me to leave," he explained, drawing her attention towards the window with his eyes.

Turning around, she caught sight of the flakes drifting down, and her face fell. With a sigh, she turned back around and nodded. "Of course," she agreed, slipping the box with the earrings into her pocket as she rose to her feet.

Alice, who had been looking through a new book she had just received, glanced up with a slight frown. "Is something wrong?" she queried.

"It is starting to snow, Mother," Helen informed her, gesturing with one hand towards the window.

"Ah!" the elder woman breathed as the two boys looked up from trying to figure out some of the Chinese puzzles Holmes had given Matthew.

"You're not going?" protested Andrew with a plaintive air. "We were hoping you'd tell us about the missing horse you found that you rode to win the Essex cup!"

Holmes blinked. "Wessex...and I believe some details may have become a little...lost in the original telling?" he replied, glancing at Helen.

She smiled a little and nodded. "I think so as well," she agreed with a low chuckle.

"Perhaps next time..." their guest said to the boy.

"When?" came the immediate reply.

"I'm afraid I can't quite say at the moment. I shall endeavour to make it soon, though."

"Next week?"

"I...think maybe not," he answered. "But perhaps the week after," the detective said quickly on seeing the question that was coming next.

Andrew sniffed but soon nodded, seemingly satisfied. Turning back to his brother, they resumed the finger puzzle and trap deciphering. With a rueful smile, Holmes looked to the two ladies before moving to the door and out into the hallway.

Goodwin, as if prescient, was already there. "I saw the snow had begun to fall, Miss, so I took the liberty of asking Mr. Reggie to drive Mr. Holmes back into town if required. The carriage is ready."

Though inwardly she wasn't completely sure she was entirely grateful for her butler's foresight, she smiled and nodded all the same. "Thank you, Goodwin," she replied, watching her guest dress for his trip back into town. "That was most thoughtful of you."

Alice moved over to the detective and held out her hand as soon as he'd slipped his coat on. "Well, I shall bid you a good evening and Happy Christmas now, Sherlock. I have two small boys that need to be bathed and readied for bed." She glanced over to the twins who were now standing in the doorway, not wanting to be left out of the proceedings.

Taking her hand, he bowed over it. "Good night, Mrs. Thurlow, and thank you. I wish you a most fortuitous and happy New Year if I do not see you before then." Releasing her hand, he turned to the twins. "Goodnight, boys."

"Goodnight, sir," they chorused, moving reluctantly towards the stairs at Alice's beckoning.

"I shall join you in a moment, Mother," Helen called after them before turning her attention back to her beau. "I wish you a very safe journey back, Sherlock," she said, holding out her hand, a faint timbre in her tone showing that she was sad to see him leave. "And I hope we shall see each other soon?"

His now gloved fingers touched her bare hand. "Perhaps if you are up in London after the New Year?" he suggested before bowing his head and after a moment's hesitation, let his lips brush over the backs of her knuckles.

"If you are free, I shall make a point of it," she told him softly, her voice as warm as her gaze as his lips on her skin sent a warm tingle up her arm and through her veins.

"Then, if you have no objections, I shall cable you to keep you appraised of my availability." He held onto her hand a moment longer as he rose.

"No objections at all," she agreed, squeezing his hand gently as she gazed into his eyes. "I shall look forward to it."

He held her gaze for a fraction of a moment longer and then stepped away to don his hat. "Goodnight, Helen, and thank you for _le_ _premier Noël_. It has been most memorable." He glanced back at her from the door, outside of which the carriage wheels drew up.

Her smile widened just a little. "Non mon cher, je te remercie." Her eyes dipped down for a second before returning to meet his. "Be safe, Sherlock."

Taken by her words, he nodded slowly and turned to go out into the falling snow with a warmer glow inside of him than he could ever remember feeling.

* * *

****

Authors' Notes: Welcome back, and thank you all so much for all the wonderful comments! And greetings to both regular and new commenters! We are so glad you are enjoying the story and hope you are excited to see what is to come. :D

We are glad that everyone liked that Holmes wouldn't exactly be in the know about how to court a lady. But rest assured that though he seems rather naive now he will not always be so. Holmes is a pretty speedy learner. (snicker) As to kisses and such...well, everyone is just going to have to wait and see. As for this becoming a Brett fic more than a Holmes fic...I'm afraid I have to disagree. Yes, our Holmes may have a few Brett manerisms (and appearances), but I don't think he is more Brett than canon. In fact, I saw last chapter is being one of the least Brettish of the chapters we have done. But ah well, to each's interpretation their own...

As for Helen's patience...oh yes, she is a very patient gal. And she's had to ask herself what she would put up with to be with the man she loves, and so she'll continue to be patient with him...to a point. Last chapter, they were both in the wrong, as people are when they don't communicate, but don't expect Helen to always be in the right...nor Holmes. People, when they grow together, make mistakes. As for keeping their relationship under wraps...I can't tell you if it will always be so, but we did have to come up with logical and feasible reasons why Watson never writes about Miss Thurlow in 'the canon.' :D

Oh...and his liking of her hair...yes, he does find her auburn locks attractive...something that will come up again when a certain governess pays a call on Baker Street to consult with him about a position she may or may not accept.

And just a couple end notes...the plot bunnies would like to thank Anna for the carrots...the one smoking the pipe would like to know if she could send some shag tobacco with the next assortment. And Harrison...I am working on a drawing now of Helen and Sherlock, and hope to have it up on my deviantart site soon. So keep your eyes peeled...I just had a huge Snape and Paidea picture run, so now getting back into a Holmes one. :D

Sorry this A/N was so long! Many hugs to all, and thank you all again for all the reads and/or reviews. They are appreciated. We would also like to say a huge thank you to our beta's husband for the French betaing. -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)


	3. Legato

_**Chapter Three: Legato**_

_5th February, 1890_

"Your pardon, sir." The muffled, querulous voice of a rather stooped old man impeded the detective's progress along the narrow streets of Blackfriars. Coming to a stop, Holmes set the tip of his cane down and tipped his hat.

"May I be of service?" he enquired, noting the silver mane of hair protruding down from beneath the venerable man's too large bowler. A mane that was matched by a beard of extraordinary length running down under the grey scarf wrapped around the old man's neck and chin.

"I am in great hope, sir, that indeed you might!" The elder nodded eagerly, the movement of his lips obscured by his scarf. "I have been wandering around this maze of thoroughfares for some time now in search of the offices of _The Times_. People have been most kind in their direction, but I fear I am no closer to discovering the whereabouts of Printing House Square now than when I started."

A small frown tinged with amusement touched Holmes's brow. "Indeed, sir, you are not the first nor will you be the last to find yourself in such a predicament. The office of that publication is rather fiendishly difficult to locate. A useful trait for any business that ventures forthright and controversial opinion to the world. However…" He raised his cane and pointed across the street towards a red brick building with a tympanum decorated with oak leaves and acorns. "_This_ is the street that backs onto the Square in question, and _that_ is the front entrance to the offices of the newspaper."

"Oh!" the old man exclaimed before giggling in embarrassment -- a high pitched sound that spoke of an impish nature. "How silly of me not to see it."

Holmes took in the hunched figure and the slight palsy of the hands of the man in front of him and indicated the narrow but busy road between them and the entrance. "As it is also my destination, may I see you safely there?"

"Thank you most kindly, but no indeed, sir," came the emphatic and rather surprising reply. Two intelligent eyes found their way upwards, peering out from under the rim of the hat that sat too low upon his head to gaze upon Holmes's face. "I have no business there, I was merely passing the time in discovering its whereabouts. I am retired, you see, sir…and as I have no business, my business is the gathering of new facts and data." A slow smile spread over his lips. "One must always keep one's mind alive and informed, don't you agree? Thank you so much for your aid…I believe I shall now seek out some tea and a chair to rest myself upon." Tipping his hat in kind, the elderly man shuffled away, leaving Holmes to watch his slow retreat.

And as he did, a chill that had little to do with the frosty February air tingled at the back of Holmes's neck, causing the short hairs to rise and the detective to quickly turn to scrutinise the surrounds of Queen Victoria Street. A figure flitted by an upstairs window above a stationer's shop. Across the way, a carriage that had been sitting there moved off, its passengers unseen to him. Near the east end of the street, two men previously chatting by the corner slipped away.

His hold on his cane tightening, Holmes turned his eyes back to the old man, watching him carefully. The dapper but rather ill fitting attire that spoke of clothes cut for the man when he was taller and straighter, his poise and walk, his polite greetings to passing ladies and gentlemen -- nothing spoke of anything other than the old retired gentleman he appeared to be.

Tucking his cane under his arm, Holmes moved quickly across the narrow thoroughfare towards the newspaper he had come to visit. Once inside the bustling building, he turned back to the glass paned door and looked back outside at the street he had just left. On seeing nothing of any import, he relaxed slightly.

"Yes, sir?" came the inquiry from the porter nearby.

Holmes turned and gave a slight exhale, reducing the tension within him even more. "My name is Holmes. I have an appointment with the editor, Mr. Buckle."

"Ah yes, sir, Mr. Holmes." The burly man nodded. "You are expected. Mr. Buckle's office is…"

"At the top of the stairs inside the city newsroom. Yes, thank you," Holmes interjected.

Most newspaper offices were of similar layout. Something he had had plenty of time to ascertain of late, as over the past six weeks or so, he had been taking what time he could afford to visit them each in turn. Each editor spoken to in person, the same request put to them all.

He had had an understanding with _The Times_ for some time now in regard to mutual information, which was why he had left the greatest newspaper in the civilised world to the last upon his calendar. He would, on occasion, give them choice interviews upon a range of subjects in return for their journalists passing on or withholding information for him.

George Earl Buckle, a young man of thirty-five, had been editor here for some four years now, and the two men being of similar age, each with a thirst for knowledge of a certain kind, had quickly found themselves simpatico with each other's needs. While Holmes was quite sure Buckle was already applying a restraining hand upon his journalists for his sake, it was best to formally place the request in person as he had done to the editors of the likes of _The Observer, The Standard_, _The Telegraph_,and_ The News Of The World_, amongst others.

As he crested the stairs, it occurred to him that no doubt _that_ request was causing him to lean towards the increasingly suspicious behaviour he had exhibited in the street and the sensation of being observed. Having crossed so many people in his career, it was a feeling that was never truly very far away, but of late he had found the sensation mounting somewhat. But then, that was only logical, he knew, as he himself now had something to hide.

He reminded himself there and then not to let his concerns get the better of him. To do so would be entirely counter productive.

On entering the busy and exceedingly loud City Room, Holmes paused to gaze around at a hub of modern technology in action. An inordinate number of telephones, seven in total, jangled almost constantly while the paper's personal telegraph ticked over, and copy boys ran to and fro with dispatches and proofs as journalists clacked at their typewriters or interviewed people by their desks.

Through all the hubbub, another elderly man walked serenely. One Holmes recognised immediately as John Walter the Third, the grandson of the founder of the paper and the controlling hand upon it. A man given to extreme gravitas, he was renowned for walking the passageways of the paper just as he did now, solemnly, noiselessly, ominously, and always looking straight ahead of him if he passed any member of the staff -- none but the Editor amongst his employees worthy of his consideration.

Unfortunately, this gravity was somewhat undone by the fact that he resembled nothing so much as a sheep -- his face rather comically surrounded by a thick frill of white hair all round his shaven lips and chin from which his visage poked out. Behind him and standing in the doorway of his office, George Buckle stood with a rather tolerantly amused expression on his face as he watched his employer depart. On seeing the detective by the door, his smile widened and he gestured expansively to Holmes to join him in his office.

On doing so and after an exchange of greetings, Holmes took a seat opposite the stocky, moustachioed man, who like most men in his position exuded an air of controlled urgency.

"So, what brings you to see me, Mr. Holmes?" Buckle enquired, offering his guest a cigarette which Holmes took with a grateful nod.

"Given the recent…notable…absence of my name from your society columns, Mr. Buckle," he replied in the process of lighting the tobacco, "I am quite sure that you are already aware of what my business is." A small smile touched his lips before he drew upon his cigarette.

The smile was matched by Buckle, who folded his hands upon his lap, his leather chair squeaking a little as he too relaxed into his seat. "Yes…I had quite a job keeping my lads in line over that. I had thought at first that it was once again wishful thinking on their part. There is always an eagerness to attach the name of a high profile bachelor with that of a lady; it is human nature to seek such things. I warned them that your re-attachment to Miss Thurlow following the end of her association with that young soldier _could_ be no more than your resuming your friendly squiring of her. But given the sudden ending of her relationship with Major Edwards and then the equally sudden resumption of your attending upon her, I thought it prudent to withhold mention of it within our pages until I had clarification from you yourself. Had you not come to me by the end of this month, I would have assumed that your relationship with her was merely platonic as before, and mention would have been made as usual…as you are here, however, I take it that it is otherwise?"

Holmes nodded silently and drew upon his cigarette once more as Buckley let out a long sigh and shook his head.

"I must confess to being surprised….and to be honest, Mr. Holmes, it is a rare thing to surprise hardened newspaper men. When you manage to take the fourth estate unaware in the manner you have with your recent actions, it is undoubtedly a story worth the printing," he said pointedly.

Holmes casual smile widened. "Then my gratitude for your silence on this matter is all the greater for your forbearance, Mr. Buckle."

"Oh, I hardly think that it is such a hardship," replied Buckle after a moment. "After all, the insight and the stories you do afford us far outweigh the loss of it. Even though the public at large, and most certainly our lady readers, would buy the paper in droves to hear a little of the private life of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Especially given his heretofore rather notorious stance on the fairer sex," he added, arching a jovial eyebrow.

Tapping his cigarette ash into the tray provided, the detective exhaled quietly. "We each of us must be wise enough to know when we are defeated upon a certain point, Mr. Buckle."

"Indeed…" The editor nodded. "And nothing quite defeats a gentleman like the right woman appearing in his life, as my wife is very fond of telling me." He leaned forward, placing his hands upon his wide mahogany desk. "I am as yet unsure whether to congratulate you, sir, upon the conquest of such a young lady or commiserate with you upon your being so vanquished?"

His guest let out a soft chuckle. "Succinctly put…and I believe a little of each is in order."

Buckle laughed. "True of the downfall of _all _men at the hands of the ladies. Still…I wish you well of your acquaintance with her, and you may rest assured that any and all mentions of your linked names shall remain solely within the domain of friendship."

"Thank you, Mr. Buckle," the detective acknowledged. "My plan was to have left it well enough alone and allowed you and others in the press to come to that erroneous conclusion and print of our renewed friendship. But over these past two months, I have found that even when one plans meticulously, one can never allow for the small public slips that occur between two individuals which might indicate to those around that a relationship is more than it appears to be."

"A touch of the hand or of the lip perhaps, Mr. Holmes?" Buckle teased him lightly.

Holmes cleared his throat a little. "In any event…I therefore felt it would be best to inform you and your peers at the other London publications of the truth of the situation, as I have some concerns about the wide dissemination of such information."

"No doubt," the editor agreed with a nod, returning to his businesslike demeanour. "A gentleman like yourself, given your history, would have quite a few in that regard when taking up with a lady. Certain aggrieved individuals both here and abroad looking for vulnerable spots?"

"Indeed…" Holmes stubbed out his cigarette. "And despite the bulk of the individuals in question serving time at her Majesty's pleasure or having gone on to stand before a greater judge then ourselves, there remain others willing to act on their behalf. Unlike the families of our police force, protection against such events remains largely within my own hands and wits."

The editor was silent for a moment. "You have my sympathies in that regard, sir." He rose and moved to his office's large arched window, from which he had a fine view over Printing House Square and out beyond over London. "I married my Alice some five years ago now…just as I was in the midst of a story regarding the criminal underworld that so affects our city. I received threats to her well-being soon after our engagement was announced in the paper. It was a…difficult time."

"I had heard of it," Holmes remarked. "And I must admit it fed my reluctance to ever tread upon this path. Events, however, have dictated otherwise, though my disquiet on behalf of Miss Thurlow has not lessened. In fact, I would venture to say the reverse has become the case."

"It appears that all of us who at times walk the crusader's path do so at risk to those we care for," Buckle agreed before turning back to his guest. "But I will tell you this, sir -- it is my experience that those who care for us are even braver individuals than we. To involve themselves with us, knowing as they do what dangers the folly of our principles can plunge us into, and continue on heedless of what it means for their personal safety…" He trailed off and smiled. "Well, if your Miss Thurlow is anything like my Alice, then all I can say is you will be a lucky man.

"Besides…" he continued, "to change our lives, to deny ourselves attachments and others our affections, would only be a victory for those who we seek to bring to heel. They would manacle _us_, instead of the other way around."

Folding his arms, Holmes took in his words. "A fair point, Mr. Buckle, a very fair point."

Buckle returned to his seat, his manner brisk once more. "Still, I sincerely hope you are spared any similar discomfort. You render our society such a very great service that what we may do in return is little enough to ask. You may rest assured that as long as you wish us to maintain a politic silence or place a subtle veneer upon this matter, we shall do so.

"Not only that, but I shall endeavour to ensure that my peers to whom you have already spoken maintain a similar line…" He smiled a little. "We may be in rival publications, but we are aware enough to know when a unified front upon a certain matter within society is convenient for us all, Mr. Holmes."

"You have my thanks, Mr. Buckle." The tall man rose from his seat. "I have succeeded thus far in not being too distracted in this turn in my personal affairs. Knowing I can count upon your good offices shall further allow me to focus my mind upon my work." Upon checking the time and slipping his watch once more to his waistcoat pocket, he picked up his hat and cane. "Something to which I must return, I'm afraid. I am to meet my colleague Dr. Watson at Blackfriars Bridge with a cab before we journey on to King's Cross together."

"The forgery and theft at the Millsbury Estate?" the news man enquired.

"You are as well informed as ever, sir."

"I would be a poor newspaper man, indeed, if I were not aware of such an interesting robbery. A priceless, bejewelled ebony snake that is genuine when it leaves London and a forgery by the time it reaches its home in Manchester? It should be a most fascinating case."

The detective smiled a little. "I do not recall my confirming my participation in the matter. Only that the good doctor and I were preparing for a journey onwards from King's Cross."

"Then my best wishes to you both, sir," Buckle said as he, too, rose to his feet. "And I trust if there are developments from your…journey…you will of course favour us with an interview in its aftermath, if appropriate."

Holmes took the editor's outstretched hand. "If appropriate, sir," he agreed with a smile before excusing himself and heading out into the afternoon.

* * *

_12th March, 1890_

March in London was never the most hospitable time of year. The temperature was cold, the air was damp, and the brisk winds were enough to upend many a hapless newsman's stand, setting his wares loose upon the breeze. It was an in-between time of year, the days lasting too long to be winter but the air too damp and frigid to be spring. The people felt the indecision of Mother Nature constantly, never sure if it was time to put away their heavy winter wear or place it within easy reach once more.

It was upon such a blustery day in mid March that Helen Thurlow arrived at the Queen's Concert Rooms on Hanover Square to find her companion for the afternoon's chamber music performance had not yet arrived. Standing on the steps and endeavouring to keep her hat from blowing clean off her head, she waited, her brow furrowing a little bit more with each passing moment.

Glancing quickly at the delicate watch she kept pinned to her coat, she sighed and shook her head, chastising herself for her worry and beseeching herself to relax. After the debacle of their first outing last December, her suitor had been most attentive in terms of his obligations in alerting her to problems with his arrival, a lesson well learned. He always telegrammed or sent word if he were detained or had to cancel. Since he had not sent word, she could only assume he was merely running late and was en route.

Or at least she hoped he was. Steadying her hat once more, she sighed as she noticed more locks of her deep auburn hued hair coming loose and blowing free in the biting wind.

It was while she looked towards Hanover Street and the entrance to the square that the baritone voice of a rather windswept and unkempt Sherlock Holmes greeted her from behind, one hand behind his back and his rather the worse for wear hat in the other.

Taken by surprise, Helen spun and in doing so, tripped over her long dress, sending her stumbling into him. Her cheeks crimson with embarrassment, she gazed up at him and gave a wan smile as she tried to hold on to what little remained of her poise. An endeavour unaided by the wind that shot past them again, sending yet more tendrils of hair into her face.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," she replied, pushing her hair away quickly and attempting to tuck it behind her ear as a temporary measure.

The hand holding his hat, having gone around her momentarily to help steady her, lingered a moment. On lowering it, he gazed down at her, noting the way her wind loosened hair curled around her face. There was no doubting that the effect was most becoming. "Are you well?" he asked solicitously of her stumble.

A wry smile lit on her lips as she nodded. "Quite well, though I fear this wind has had its say upon me."

"The wind has done no damage that I can see…rather the reverse," he replied quietly before remembering himself and taking a step backwards.

"Why thank you, Mr. Holmes," she returned, struggling to contain her smile at the receipt of his first genuinely spontaneous compliment regarding her appearance. Her eyes were warm as she looked up into his. "You are most kind."

"My apologies for delaying you in this weather..." he said rather hesitantly as they stepped inside the outer doors of the concert hall, gaining a modicum of privacy in the small area between there and the inner doors which led to the atrium. "I was on my way here, when the wind took hold of my hat," he held up the damp and dirt brushed top hat, "and while I waited for a boy nearby to chase it down for me…well…"

His discomforted look grew and mingled with an expression of annoyance at that discomfort. "Well, not to beat about the bush...I rather thought you might..." he cleared his throat, "appreciate these." Drawing a posy of violets from within the depths of his top hat and his countenance most uncertain, he offered it to her, carefully shielding the act from public view from those within the atrium.

Her eyes widened even as her whole face brightened. It was proving a day for surprises, spontaneous compliments, and now flowers…the first in three months of courting. The unexpectedness and duration of time involved combined to make the receipt of such a gift all the more precious.

Taking the flowers from his hand, she inhaled their sweet scent, her eyes meeting his with a look that spoke of her deep fondness and love. "Thank you," she breathed, and in a moment of complete spontaneity of her own, reached up and bestowed a soft kiss on his cheek before pulling back with a shy smile. "I...it was very thoughtful of you."

The moment her lips touched his cheek, however, Holmes stiffened noticeably. "Miss Thurlow…Helen, _please._" He urged her restraint as his gaze moved immediately from her to glance through the glass panes of the inner door towards the sparsely populated foyer of the concert hall, seeking any watching eyes -- his work to keep them merely friends in the eyes of the world in danger of coming undone in the face of her gesture.

It was, of course, not the only reason for the stiffness of his reaction; his disquiet at the idea of them being seen blended quickly with the flush that spread unchecked across his cheeks at the feel of her lips upon them. Decidedly wrong-footed by her actions, he appeared far more like a flustered school boy than the world's foremost consulting detective.

His nervous reaction threw her off balance in turn and without delay, she dropped her eyes and blushed, biting her lip in embarrassment. "I apologise. I forgot myself," she said softly, pushing back her hair once more, and after a moment of tense silence, suggested, "Perhaps we should go in?"

Clearing his throat, he nodded in agreement before venturing a somewhat diffident glance up at her and after a moment, lightly touched the flowers he had given her. "They please you?" he enquired in a murmur before opening the door for her.

Her own awkward smile answered his as she nodded. "They're very beautiful," she replied. "I've always favoured violets."

Following her in as she stepped inside, he fell in beside her. "No doubt you have received more impressive floral arrangements, but I thought these would be less obtrusive in these surroundings," he said of the sumptuously decorated music rooms.

Helen smiled at his practicality and forethought in even this romantic gesture. "Yes, I suppose I have, but never my favourite flowers before today," she assured him, holding them up to her nose and smelling them happily. "I always used to have some in my room as a child. My mother told me once that they almost named me Violet; however, my father favoured Helen…so Violet became my middle name."

"Indeed?" He regarded her with something of a smile. "It is a very pretty name, I confess...but Helen suits you far better. Perhaps your father saw something of the regal in you?" he suggested.

Chuckling, she shook her head. "I believe he had just finished re-reading The Iliad. And..." Her cheeks flushed a little. "He looked at me after I was born and told my mother that my face would be enough to launch a thousand ships." She coughed in embarrassment. "A trifle sentimental...though it was a nice story to hear and remember the good times now that he is gone."

They stepped to the short queue at the box office. "Such memories are to be cherished and are a good deal more than some children ever have," he agreed as his hand fished in his pocket for the entry fee.

Once the tickets were purchased, they climbed the stairs to join the small crowd, not in the dress circle where others of their acquaintance might be, but further back so as to remain unobserved even at a matinee. Prevention always being better than cure. Seeing her to her seat and helping her off with her overcoat and as agreed, both of them dressed soberly, Holmes removed his own coat, revealing his plain brown tweed suit before he sat beside her and handed her the short program.

"Thank you," she whispered, her gloved fingers brushing his just a little as she took the program. His eyes lingered a moment upon them as they moved from his before Holmes drew himself up and gazed at the group around them.

Mostly lower middle and working class couples -- maids and their beaux on their afternoon off and the like -- the air around them was more relaxed and playful with plenty of flirting and whispering as the audience drifted in.

Smoothing the woollen skirts of her plain day suit, Helen glanced briefly over the program and then at the people around them, a slight smile on her lips as she watched the other couples and simply pleased to be there with her own suitor. Turning back to her program, she murmured warmly, "I must say I have been looking forward to this outing greatly."

"You have heard good things about the chamber orchestra?"

"No...though I am most keen to hear their renditions of Mozart and Handel's works," she answered with a quick glance at him. "I was referring to the company."

He nodded slowly on turning to her. "Our time together has been brief of late. This series of high profile thefts have taken up a deal of my time."

She smiled widely at him and took his hand, her gloved fingers curling around his own out of sight of anyone. "You have been busy and that's to be expected," she replied, though her expression showed that she had missed him.

Looking down at their entwined fingers, even clad as they were in silk and leather respectively, Holmes found himself slightly disembodied and removed from himself. The simple gesture seemed a million miles away from the aloof man he had styled himself to be. A kiss upon the back of the hand was polite and gentlemanly, a brief brush of the hand or arm against another, unavoidable…but this…this was quite different.

The intimacy and connection of the prolonged touch was still alien and somewhat disconcerting to him. He felt as if he should draw his hand away once more to its customary solitary existence…and yet he did not -- for he had to admit privately that this most basic of connections was quite astonishingly effective. The warmth generated by their combined hands and by her expression filled him to such an extent that, on raising his eyes to hers again, he found it difficult to hold her gaze, his cheeks flushing with that heat.

"My work_ is_ most important," he agreed, attempting to collect himself, though on shifting his gaze to the stage, he squeezed her hand tentatively in silent tribute to her growing position in his life.

She smiled a little with pleasure at his gesture and turned her attention forward as the performers emerged.

* * *

It was an odd thing how quickly something so foreign to a man might become the most natural thing in the world, Holmes observed to himself a short time later, while the small chamber orchestra moved towards the end of their giddy final encore, a lively rendition of Mozart's 'A Musical Joke.' 

His observation was accompanied by his eyes flickering momentarily to his hand -- a hand that was still joined with hers, having remained so throughout the concert. The connection had broken only momentarily for applause, and then her fingers would snake through his once more, her hand returning continuously to find its natural resting place in his. Until finally at the beginning of the _Sarabande_ in Handel's Suite No. 4, he had simply pre-empted her movement and gathered her small hand into his without conscious thought. Something he realised only a short while later.

As the final bars were played, he released her hand for the final time and applauded for the orchestra which, though a ways from being as accomplished as they might, had given those present sufficiently good entertainment for their coin. Rising up as the performers left the stage for the final time, he turned around and gathered up her coat for her. Holding it out as so many young men were doing for their ladies, he aided her as she slipped into it in the narrow confines of the stalls before retrieving the violets she had carefully placed under her chair and returning them to her.

"It is quite early," he said, noting the clock in the Hall. "When must you return home?"

Holding the flowers up to her nose, she had an expression of almost dreamy happiness on her face as her eyes looked up into his. "Not for some time...though I must be home for dinner this evening. Elizabeth and Benjamin Day are paying us a visit, bringing young Emily and her brothers and sisters. My own brothers are quite excited by the prospect. Mother is seeing to the preparations but, of course, I do need to be there by tonight."

"I see." He nodded, understanding her need to go but pleased to see her contented while she was in his presence.

He had gradually improved as a suitor he knew, but it was still a relief that everything was going according to plan today. Most especially as St. Valentine's Day had been an almost complete disaster in that he had forgotten it quite entirely, caught up as he was in the throes of a case. He had been reminded of it at the last moment by a mildly disgruntled Watson, whose own plans with Mary had been wrecked by his friend's near insistence on him remaining with him on that case. Only the last minute purchase of an ornate card and the hiring of a courier to carry it quickly to its destination had saved Holmes on that occasion.

Such incidences, combined with the myriad of small details in the art of romance that either Watson would convey to him or that he himself noticed in other courting couples, ensured that the morning of each lone assignation with Helen brought with it more nervousness then any amount of cases had ever given him. It was not that he did not know what it was he should do. He had a fine head for details, after all. Rather it was the timing and application of those details, coupled with his own reserved nature, which gave him pause…and made him awkward.

But that said, his next move was obvious, easy and perfectly timed in its application. "Well then, in the meantime, would you care to take some tea with me, perhaps?"

Her smile, though she endeavoured to contain it, was radiant as she nodded. "That would be lovely, Sherlock," she replied, keeping her voice level so as not to raise their fellow patrons' suspicions.

Once on the street, he took up his position outside her and walked with her, not where his inclination led him towards Mayfair and the grander hotels and cafes there, but rather towards Soho -- his intent being to vary their patronage so as not to be seen too frequently together in anyone place.

In the hustle and bustle of Soho's less genteel streets, he escorted her to a clean and friendly establishment on Beak Street. There, they were greeted by a ruddy cheeked man pleased to see more refined individuals visiting his premises.

Seating them at a table near the window, he provided them with menus and charged his best waitress to wait upon them. Under her constantly attentive gaze, Holmes frowned slightly and glanced at Helen before looking at the menu. "It would seem we are under even more scrutiny here than had I taken you to the Savoy," he groused softly.

She bit her lip to keep the answering chuckle from bubbling forth and gave a slight nod. "Does anything suit your fancy?" she enquired as she endeavoured to choose between two very tasty sounding entrees upon the menu.

Scrutinising the menu, he shook his head, his appetite absent once more. "Perhaps just a little tea."

She nodded, continuing to bite her lip absently as she tried to make a decision and finally settled on a selection of scones and Devonshire cream. Sitting back a little in her chair, Helen smiled a little across at her companion as she watched him. "You look thoughtful."

As their waitress scurried away with their orders, his eyes found hers, his lips curling a little. "Do I?"

"Mmmm," she replied, carefully removing her gloves and laying them on the table. "Is it work?"

"It would be untruthful if I said there was not always a little work in my mind," he confessed, leaning back in his chair. "The disappearance of the Ebony Snake from the Millsbury Estate is still outstanding upon my resume. It was most expertly done. So much so that I cannot help but think it is a part of a pattern of still unsolved thefts in the hands of Scotland Yard that go back some time now. I have explained that to Lord Millsbury and he is content, for now, for me to widen my investigations, even though it means he must wait for the resolution of the theft from his own collection." He glanced at her as she listened intently and smiled before returning to her question. "But no...the preponderance of my thoughts, for once, does not lie upon my work."

With a slight cock of her head, she gazed at him with a puzzled expression. "Well...I suppose that is good then," she returned hesitantly, her tone unable to disguise her curiosity.

"You wish me to expound," he stated wryly as he noted her countenance. "I thought perhaps your feminine intuition might give you insight into the male mind in such matters. Especially one who acts as I do."

Looking down, and a little embarrassed for being caught out so, she shook her head. "You are not always an easy man to read, Sherlock, and I would not seek to pry," she answered uncomfortably, aware of his deep need for privacy. "They are your thoughts after all."

"They are of you," he replied briskly after a moment's consideration, the uncomfortable lesson learned about lack of communication prior to Christmas still fresh in his mind. "Or rather of this. We together." He gestured to them both. "Therefore, I suppose you could deem them common ground."

Her cheeks pinked even further, though she did look a bit pleased that he was thinking of her, but also a little nervous for the same reasons. Her query reflected that anxiety. "If I may be so bold...I should hope they are pleasant ones?"

He gazed at her levelly. "In all honesty? They are nervous ones and always have been. I had thought things would improve following our first troubled encounter as a courting couple. And they have…to an extent. Christmas with your family was a most pleasant diversion, and I do believe I am improving somewhat in my understanding of what is required to be a good suitor." He paused as she gave him an encouraging smile. "But…" His breath escaped him quietly. "Few people in my life have ever left me uncertain in my dealings with them, Helen...and none as effortlessly and continuously as you manage when we are alone." Glancing down at her hand, one long finger of his own snaked out and touched it gently.

Though her cheeks were still flushed, she felt a tiny smile form on her lips even as her finger brushed along his in return, the simple motion and his frank words sending shivers of electricity through her. "The feeling is rather mutual, Sherlock," she assured him softly in reply. "I suppose we shall simply continue to learn together."

"I suppose we shall," he agreed, gratified to know that he was not alone in his hesitancy. "Though you surprise me that you feel the same. You have certainly given little indication of it since that first unfortunate evening." His eye caught the return of their bustling waitress, and he quickly drew his impudent hand back from its intrusiveness before it could be spotted. "When do you imagine it ends?" he asked his companion as the waitress moved about her work, laying cups and saucers before them.

"What's that, sir?" the waitress asked, mistaking the question for her.

Glancing up at the dark haired girl in her pristine laced cap, Holmes blinked, his expression amused. Throwing a look of devilment at Helen, he sat back. "The sense of uncertainty between a man and a woman courting," he informed her with twinkling eyes, as he reached for his cigarette case.

The girl hardly missed a beat as she turned to take a plate of scones off the large tray she had set up behind her. "Oh lor' love you, sir..." She smiled to herself. "That don't ever end."

Holmes arched an eyebrow. "Never?"

"Not in my experience," she sniffed. "Oh you gets comfortable like...but never that comfortable. Not if you knows what's good for you any road." She glanced at Helen in mid conversation. "Would you like raspberry preserves with your scones as well, miss?"

The young woman nodded. "Yes, thank you," she replied, appearing rather amused if surprised at the other woman's words.

Nodding, the girl turned and took a second jar of preserves off the tray and put it beside the first before continuing, "It's the not quite knowing exactly what is going to happen is what keeps it interesting, sir...at least that's what my Peter says. I mean to say, if you knew exactly what the other person was going to do all the time...well, where's the excitement in that?" she commented as much to herself as to them. "Don't you get me wrong, sir, miss." She shook her head. "Comfort is good...nice...necessary, but it's that uncertainty that..."

"Mystery?" Holmes offered, his eyes alive with humour.

"Right you are, sir!" she nodded emphatically. "Mystery...is what keeps it fun!"

"Daisy!" the owner of the cafe barked at her on seeing her chatter on. "Move on about your business, girl!"

With a sheepish look and a quick curtsey, Daisy gathered up her tray and stand and hurried off.

Taking out a cigarette, Holmes chuckled to himself. "Well, Miss Thurlow?" He smiled at her. "What say you to Daisy's opinion?"

A slender brow arched up at him in reply before she shook her head and sighed. "I suppose she is right..." she replied before a low laugh escaped her. "Though after nearly two years of your acquaintance, Mr. Holmes, I am still no closer to solving your particular mystery as I was then. Though I find myself much more encouraged and resolved to try."

Chuckling softly, he nodded. "And one day you may even succeed. But alas, in my case, despite my reputation, hard earned as it is..." he tapped the cylinder of tobacco on his case, "this is one mystery that I am not equipped to solve. No, nor any man under the sun. For women are and always will be beyond the ken of mortal man." Reaching for his matches, he gazed up at her from under hooded brows. "So, it seems I must find my logic and certainty in my work and my mystery...elsewhere."

She smiled a little and moved to pour the tea. "Indeed...your profession ensures plenty of opportunity there. Though women are not as complicated as one may think," she reminded him.

"To other women perhaps," he replied, watching her.

She chuckled. "Do you really find me that perplexing, Sherlock?" she asked, glancing up for a moment before adding the milk to his tea and passing it to him. "I have always been told I was rather plain spoken."

"My dear Helen," he replied, taking his tea with a nod of thanks, "it's not what a woman says, but how she acts, or rather reacts, that is the difficulty. A woman's actions and reactions are far more driven by emotionality than a man's...and as such they can never quite be exacted upon _by_ a man, for he never knows until that precise moment of response what humour is upon a woman. For instance..." He nodded towards her violets on the far side of the table. "One day a man might bring his wife home a bunch of flowers and receive a grateful embrace of happiness. A week later under precisely the same circumstances, he might do the same and his wife might burst into tears also from happiness. It is such unpredictability of reaction that perplexes the men of the world and drives them to distraction."

Putting down his matches beside his cigarette, he drank a little of his tea. "Not all women are the same, I grant you," he continued. "But all women are ruled by natures far more complex then the males...their criteria for judging almost everything is different."

Taking a sip of her own tea, she regarded him quietly for a moment. "Perhaps," she answered enigmatically, mostly to tease him.

Putting down his tea rapidly almost as it had reached his mouth, he pointed at her in triumph. "There!" He smiled broadly. "If you had been a man, you would have agreed or disagreed, answering appropriately and affording an end to the topic or further discussion. Women, however, provide such answers as a man can do little with. Your object is to perplex...something you as a gender do admirably."

Her eyes twinkled at him and a moment later, her laugh accompanied the jesting sparkle in her eyes.

It was then he realised he had responded exactly as she wished him to and with a sigh he shook his head. "And therein lies the root of years of avoidance of women...and a great many months of nervousness!" he huffed, picking up his tea.

Still chuckling a little, she put down her cup and rearranging her hat and flowers upon the table to hide her actions, placed her hand over his, allowing her fingers to impulsively brush softly over his own. "And me as an individual?"

"You..." he began stridently as he put his cup down before his eyes drifted to her fingers and back to her face, his voice softening and his eyes closely perusing her face. "You, I am unsure of. You are more plain speaking then most women...unafraid of your intelligence, opening to learning, spirited, kind, compassionate, and forgiving. I see little of the duplicity in you that exists in so many others of your sex." His eyes slipped to her fingers again. "I am at once both comfortable with you...and yet…as I say, infinitely uncertain."

"I know..." she answered softly. "When I am with you...I feel...alive, unsure, scared, joyous...as though I could walk on air...and it saddens me to say goodbye..." With a blush, she straightened, her hand starting to slip away with embarrassment. "Forgive me. That was forward..."

His hand turned under hers, his fingers reaching up and catching hers as they moved, holding them still. "No," he said in a quiet but earnest tone. "From what instruction I have received and from my observations, I don't believe it was...though even if it were so, as you say, we are learning and mistakes are allowable, I feel," he said, gazing up at her again, the tips of his fingers moving slowly over the palm of her hand and stroking it softly.

Her breath caught in her throat before resuming at an ever so slightly quickened pace as his fingers caressed her. It was though every nerve in her hand had come to life, and it both terrified and excited her all at once. "Thank you," she breathed and for a heartbeat, her love for him showed all in her eyes.

It struck him forcibly then just how fortunate he was that someone such as she should look at him...feel for him...that way. Though he would struggle always to say it, he knew that he felt as much for her.

In a classic example of the 'public slip' he had mentioned in conversation to George Buckle, and instead of releasing her hand, a distracted Holmes forgot himself still further and enfolded it in both of his. Just as absorbed as when contemplating a case, the rest of the world slipped away from him completely.

Had it been a year ago and he on the outside, watching another couple each so immersed in the other, he would have rolled his eyes or made some dry comment or other to Watson. Even when he was apart from her, he scoffed to think he might ever act this way. That he could ever be so foolishly and unproductively preoccupied.

And yet it was only when the waitress appeared to check upon them and he came crashing back down to the here and now that Holmes realised just how far he had travelled in such a short time…and how little it now seemed to bother him on a personal level. He did, however, reprove himself silently for the overt display and removing his hands from Helen's, composed himself by going to his watch and clicking it open, busying himself with the time.

Taking in the barely touched tea and untouched scones, Daisy looked to Helen politely. "Were the scones not to your liking, miss? Is there anything else I can get you instead?"

Helen, if possible even more ensconced in her beau than he in her, broke from their silent reverie with such a start at Daisy's question that the table jerked. Glancing up at the waitress with a decidedly flustered expression, she shook her head rapidly. "Oh, no! The scones are lovely," she insisted, wincing internally at the virtually untouched state of their table.

"Shall I heat up your tea for you?" Daisy offered, looking at the pot while Holmes turned his gaze back to Helen.

"What time is your train?" he queried simultaneously, slipping his watch away.

Helen's eyes shot from one to the other blankly. She was unused to losing her equilibrium so completely and so publicly -- after all she had faced down an entire board of trustees, argued with bankers on Fleet Street, and made decisions for an international business and ensured they were carried through. But at that moment, her heart and head lay still in the caress of her suitor's hands, and the two questions colliding in her ears at once only served to completely befuddle her. "I...um...that is to say..." She rose swiftly to her feet. "I shall return momentarily!" And with that, she fled to the ladies washroom in a vain attempt to get away and calm herself.

In surprise, both Daisy and Holmes watched her flee and then looked back at each other. After a moment, a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at his companion's reaction to their intimacy and more pertinently…to him.

"Perhaps a smaller fresh pot," he decided, addressing the waitress and realising that he was now somewhat peckish. "And another round of scones please, Daisy," he ordered with a nod, pulling Helen's untouched ones towards him and slicing them open neatly, his chest puffing out slightly as he found his own balance neatly restored in the wake of his companion's flight.

It was only after Daisy had returned with the fresh pot of tea that Helen reappeared, though her face was now much more carefully composed as she sat down at the table. With a shy smile, she picked up the pot and set about pouring them cups. "I apologise...I...well...I..." She put the teapot down and sighed. "My nerves seem to have gotten the better of me."

Settling himself back into his seat after rising on her return, Holmes afforded himself a small smile. "I am hardly one to cast stones in that direction of late," he reminded her.

Her own smile turned rather wry. "Indeed...but...I am not used to having my mind go as blank as a new slate," she lamented. "If anything...I tend to say too much. It's quite disconcerting to find you have nothing to say at all. Or that your vocabulary has deserted you."

"And yet," he pointed out, pushing the fresh scones towards her, having demolished the earlier pair, "sometimes that alone can speak volumes."

The smile he gave her was equanimity itself. Her sudden loss of composure gave him not only the poise that he had been missing when alone in her presence since before their first evening out, but her flustered reaction to their quiet communion had put him back on more level ground -- as if this truly was a field of equals.

His mood was quite chipper as a result.

She sighed and picked up a scone, breaking it open and spreading some preserve on it. "Indeed," she agreed, her eyes never leaving her task. "You must think my actions rather foolish."

"On the contrary, I find them quite understandable...in that the whole thing is quite ridiculous and utterly inexplicable in any rational sense. Once that is accepted, you find every action has its own topsy turvy sort of logic," he replied, reaching over with his knife, slicing a piece of her scone off, and purloining it before popping it into his mouth happily as if some great revelation in a case had occurred to him.

She shot him a look before returning to her scone, a quiet smile forming on her face until it, too, dissolved into a wide one...which in turn transformed into a loud bell-like laugh.

Shaking his head at the strange mood altering effect this emotion to which he had finally succumbed had on them both, Holmes swallowed his ill gotten pastry and after a moment, joined her in hearty laughter.

* * *

Holmes slid the coins towards the teller and received the one way, first class ticket to St. Albans in return. Slipping the remaining coins into his pocket, he briskly walked with it back across the station to the entrance to the platform where the train already stood ready for departure. Helen waited the gate, watching the others pass their tickets to the inspector before moving on to board the various carriages. They had cut it fine, the train being due to leave in under five minutes now, but considering the amount of time it might be until they might be able to see one another again, every minute had been wrung from the afternoon. 

Still now...as he handed her the ticket, it had finally come to an end.

"A safe journey," he said quietly, his voice carrying to her even in the hubbub, "and as always, my best regards to your mother and brothers. I hope you enjoy your evening."

Her fingers slid over his as she took the ticket. "Thank you...and please give my regards to Mrs. Hudson," she replied, a shadow crossing over her features and after a moment, she added softly, "I do not like saying goodbye."

"No...nor I...more often than not I avoid them completely," he admitted before drawing himself up. "So, as they are not to our taste, Helen, let there be no goodbyes between us when we part. Let us speak only of when we shall meet again."

He smiled a little and took her arm, leading her towards the gate, his tone almost instructional. "My investigations currently keep me in the city, but I shall send a telegram to you tomorrow...and then again the moment anything should arise. I shall trust you to keep me similarly and frequently informed as to your movements."

She nodded and gave him a brighter smile. "I shall write to you before I go to bed," she promised, turning towards him, the posy in her hand. "Good evening, Sherlock," she murmured, holding out her free hand.

Taking it, he removed his hat, bowed, and kissed the once again gloved hand. "Till next time, Helen," he replied before releasing her hand and stepping away from her as she showed the inspector her ticket and moved along the platform. The steam of the engine swirled up around her as the train geared up to move off, its whistle echoing in the station as the carriage doors began to slam shut.

His hat on his head and leaning on his cane, Holmes watched the train pull out of the station before turning away to buy the _Evening Standard_ from the newsstand nearby. Tucking it under his arm, he considered the day and the small but significant step it had brought them as he walked outside. Hailing a cab, he wondered just what the next time would bring in this particularly unusual adventure before unfolding the_ Standard_ and returning to business.

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_**Authors' Notes: Hey everyone! We are both so sorry we've made you wait so long, and all your kind words were great to hear. Alas, the holidays are upon us, but we hope (with the exception of Christmas) that it shouldn't disrupt things too much. I think I've replied to people's questions with the new reply buttons, but we would like to point out that we know have a yahoo group! Yes, now I heartily recommend that people hop over there as it is a perfect venue to get updates, ask questions, discuss...but we do have one rule -- reviews stay here at the archive. It's not a review forum. Okay? Other than that comment away over there. We also have up all our pictures, fanart, and photomanips done by the talented Wens. Oh, but you must be over 18 to join. I'm sorry, but we do have a couple of fics there that are rated over M (R) and so that needs to be enforced. The link is on our Author Page here under homepage. Again, thank you all to those who have read and/or reviewed! Your thoughts are appreciated. -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	4. Invidious

**_Authors' Note: Much of the first half of this chapter has been taken directly from The Copper Beeches. We have endeavoured to keep as much of the original canon in that we could, but out of necessity a few bits have been altered slightly or switched around, and there is one notable addition from the Granada series. We do not own anything Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate owns…and we only play with his stellar works. _**

* * *

_**Chapter Four: Invidious**_

_11th April, 1890_

It was a cold April morning and the signs of early Spring were already starting to show themselves. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths.

The sort of day that prompted Holmes, Watson, and their guest Miss Helen Thurlow, who was in the city on business, to partake of a late breakfast at the table not far from where a cheery fire blazed in Holmes's rooms at Baker Street. With the chill in the air, the piping hot fare provided by the impressive Mrs Hudson was happily consumed, leaving a warm sense of well being in its delicious wake.

Once finished, Helen and Watson sat back to sip their tea, their conversation alighting upon their respective home lives, whilst enjoying the snug and pleasant surrounds. The gas was lit and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet.

Holmes, for his part, had been silent most of the morning, though he did make an effort to converse sporadically with his guest as he dipped continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last, having apparently given up his search, he emerged in no very sweet temper to lecture Watson upon his literary shortcomings.

"To the man who loves art for its own sake," the tall man remarked, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the_Daily Telegraph_"it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in these little records of our cases which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence not so much to the many _causes célèbres _and sensational trials in which I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my special province."

"And yet," Watson said with a smile, "I cannot quite hold myself absolved from the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records."

"You have erred, perhaps," Holmes observed as he took up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lit with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a meditative mood, "in attempting to put colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about the thing."

"It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter," his friend remarked coldly, somewhat annoyed by his friend's most recent bout of egotism.

"No, it is not selfishness or conceit," the detective said, answering the other man's thoughts rather than his words. "If I claim full justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing -- a thing beyond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales.

"At the same time," he continued after a pause, during which he had sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, "you can hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial."

"The end may have been so," the doctor answered, while Helen listened with interest as she made her way to her usual seat on the couch by the fire, "but the methods I hold to have been novel and of interest."

"Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial, I cannot blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, over the last month, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!" Holmes groused as he tossed a crumpled letter across to his friend, which Watson promptly read aloud.

_DEAR MR. HOLMES:_

_I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten tomorrow if I do not inconvenience you. _

_Yours faithfully, _

_VIOLET HUNTER. _

"Do you know the young lady?" Watson enquired, noting the letter was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening.

"Not I."

"It is half-past ten now."

"Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring."

"I should leave," Helen stated, quietly closing her book and moving to rise, only for her beau to direct her with a casual motion of his hand to remain as she was.

"You have heard the enquiry for yourself. Opinion upon the vast conundrum that is the positioning of a governess could only be enhanced by a feminine perspective," Holmes replied, singularly unimpressed by this latest potential _problem_. "This should not take long, and we shall be left to our own devices soon enough, no doubt."

"It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this case, also," Watson pointed out in an attempt to cheer his friend, while inwardly praying that this would not be a bootless errand.

"Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question."

As the detective spoke, the door opened and a young woman entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, her bright, quick face freckled like a plover's egg, and she had the brisk manner of a woman who had had her own way to make in the world.

"You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said she as the two men rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what I should do."

"Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I can to serve you." Turning, Holmes waved a hand towards the doctor, who was standing on the other side of both the table and the young auburn haired woman on the couch. "My colleague, Dr. John Watson, and our mutual friend, Miss Helen Thurlow," he introduced them.

Watson noted with quiet relief that his friend seemed most favourably impressed by the manner and speech of his handsome new client, whilst himself observing that the two ladies present bore more than a passing resemblance to one another.

"How do you do?" Miss Hunter greeted them, prior to seating herself across from the doctor. Her keen eyes glanced once more at Helen, a flash of curiosity briefly crossing her face.

As Holmes and Watson took their seats, the detective looked his new client over in his searching fashion before composing himself -- his lids drooping and his finger-tips together -- to listen to her story.

Helen's brow furrowed just a little at the way her beau had reacted to the newcomer -- a woman who was, in many ways, not much removed from her own appearance, but to her mind, a deal more striking. While their colouring was decidedly similar, Miss Hunter's extra length of bone lent a more arresting aspect to both face and form. Her bearing was sure and confident, her speech and gaze forthright and intelligent…even the shade of her hair seemed to Helen deeper and more lustrous than her own.

It was rather disconcerting to meet someone so oddly similar to oneself and yet more. And all the more so to have one's beau cast a keen eye upon her in your presence. All the same, Helen carefully composed herself and sat with hands folded to listen to the young woman's story.

"I have been a governess for five years," Miss Hunter began, "in the family of Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my wit's end as to what I should do."

A half an hour quickly passed, during which time Violet Hunter, prompted at points by the questions of a now pacing Holmes, described in concise and clear detail her queer experience in applying for the governess position in the home of one Mr. Rucastle of Winchester, Hampshire and most strange of all, the particular insistence that her hair be cut short as a condition of employment.

Through the narration, Helen grew increasingly disposed towards Holmes's new client, the young woman's predicament and the oddity of the situation plain to her. But the moment her beau's fingertips touched upon Violet Hunter's locks, examining them in a most intimate gesture, a freeze as cold as the fog that swirled outside the windows stiffened her posture.

Watson's gaze, which had been politely focused upon their potential client, flickered and widened before remembering they were not alone. His countenance, when turned to Helen, was of the ruefully resigned sort; his silent missive regarding his friend's most unorthodox habits writ clearly in his expression.

Reminding herself of the truth of that, Helen collected herself once more, though with considerably more difficulty than previously and the fact that Miss Hunter had not reacted with indignation only adding to the difficulty. Still, submerging her increased unease beneath the matter at hand, she focused her mind once more upon the other woman's dilemma.

The position paid handsomely. Too handsomely to her mind. But faced with the same scenario in the days when money was such a weight upon her, she could indeed see herself considering such an action in order to obtain such a princely sum and security for both herself and her mother. But why, in Heaven's name, would this Mr. Rucastle wish Miss Hunter to do so? Though it had been explained as a fad, it seemed to Helen a poor excuse.

"That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes," Miss Hunter continued, breaking into the other woman's thoughts, "and my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your consideration."

"Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the question," said Holmes with a smile.

"But you would not advise me to refuse?"

"I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for."

"What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some opinion?"

"Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?"

Watson, whose attentions had remained divided amongst the two ladies since Holmes's action, noted how Helen's eyes dipped momentarily upon the turn in the conversation. His smile was supportive, both of them remembering how Alice Thurlow had once been and the close care her daughter had once had to give her -- even going as far as to humour the older woman to prevent an outbreak, just as had been suggested.

"That is a possible solution -- in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable one," the detective agreed. "But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady."

"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!" the young woman pointed out in an almost breathless tone, still understandably in awe at the amount on offer.

"Well, yes, of course the pay is good -- too good. That is what makes me uneasy," he echoed Helen's thoughts. "Why should they give you a hundred and twenty pounds a year, when they could have their pick for forty? There must be some strong reason behind."

Miss Hunter moved to the edge of her seat, her gaze direct and hopeful. "I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me."

The flattering words were sincerely meant, and all the more affecting for that. Such flattery was not an uncommon element in a client's approach to Holmes, but as Watson glanced once more towards the couch, he quickly ascertained through the slight furrow on her brow that it was not wholly appreciated by Helen.

"Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you," his friend guaranteed her, not the least bit concerned by any perceived flattery. "I assure you that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger…"

"Danger! What danger do you foresee?" The young woman's eyes instantly went wide with trepidation.

Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if we could define it. But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help."

Watson shifted somewhat at the thin drawn line that Helen's lips had become at those words. Her note of his questioning gaze, however, relaxed them instantly.

"That is enough," Miss Hunter said gratefully, all the anxiety swept from her face as she rose briskly from her chair. "I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair tonight, and start for Winchester tomorrow." With a few grateful words to Holmes, she bade them all good day and bustled off upon her way.

"At least," Watson remarked as they listened to her quick, firm steps descending the stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take care of herself."

"And she would need to be," Holmes stated gravely. "I am much mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

Helen's brow furrowed once more, though this time in worry for the woman. Her response, however, was that of devil's advocate, eager to hear her beau's reasoning. "Do you think there is very much danger in her venture, Sherlock? I agree that his request that she cut her hair is an odd one and does not sit easy with me, but as I have encountered myself, there is a proportion of the population whose quirks and fancies seem more than a little peculiar to the rest of us. There remains the possibility that it is just as he says -- a fad, and nothing more."

His eyes still upon the door, Holmes stood thoughtful and silent before shaking his head briskly. "There is too much and too little to it for it to be so. One has only to look at the manner of his recruitment to see that. She feels him to be a kindly man. And yet, even to placate a lunatic wife, what _kindly_ man recruits a governess for his son without recourse to the close scrutiny of her suitability for the care of the child? He had no interest in the qualifications of these women, nor of Miss Hunter's. He sought only an archetype..." Turning, he walked to the window quickly to look out onto the fog filled street below, his eyes seeking and falling upon Miss Hunter. "And he found it in her."

Watching her depart into the mist, his brow wrinkled lightly. "He knew upon an instant that she met his necessities. The money, the light duties...all temptations. Seeking to model her, she was almost what he required, but was not _quite _right..." His hand rose up to the side of his head, re-enacting his fingers' touch upon his client as he murmured, "The hair. But to what end?" Turning from the window, the detective's frown grew deeper still as he moved across the room gradually, lost in thought.

Helen silently regarded him. Inwardly she agreed with his assessment but found she could not constrain her dislike of the way his eyes had focused on the woman, taking in every detail, his impressed manner...nor indeed the fact he had actually stopped in his pacing and touched her so. Intellectually she knew it had been stimulated by talk of Miss Hunter's artistic coloured hair, and when about his work, the detective was amongst the most tactile of men. But it was such an intimate gesture that it had brought about quite a spike of resentment. Annoyed with herself, she turned her gaze away hastily.

"But Holmes," Watson addressed him with increased concern, "if you felt that she should fall into the path of danger, surely it would have been prudent to advise her against taking up the position?"

"I have airy theory aplenty and not a shred of evidence to act as the catalyst for its being made solid and substantial," Holmes replied, sinking into his chair with his eyes upon the fire. "This Rucastle may well be using her as a means to an end, but there is nothing yet to say that it is of malevolent intent. And you heard her reasoning as well as I. As shown in her coming here to seek my advice, she is an intelligent woman as well as forthright and independent of spirit. Admirable and all too rare traits. I would not be within my rights to deny what is a small fortune to a lady in her position merely on an uneasy notion. She is in need of such wages as he can pay, and she is willing to pay the price in the loss of her fine hair..." Regret laced his tone. "A high price indeed."

The flash in Helen's eyes did not escape Watson this time, who had once again moved to seat himself opposite her. Though the irritation in her gaze was gone an instant later, the tension in her posture remained, confirming her jealousy in his mind.

Looking to his two companions, Holmes laced his fingers before him. "I was mistaken in my assumption that little would come of this meeting. I fear that Miss Hunter's predicament shall weigh heavily upon my mind until we hear from her again." Reaching for the poker, he stoked the fire absently. "My other interests may suffer as a result."

"You mean your other cases," the doctor prompted, aware of how his words might be interpreted by an uneasy feminine mind.

"Of course." Holmes nodded. "There will be no lapsing in my investigations naturally. But the theft of the Ebony Snake from the Millsbury Estate and the increasing probability of its being one of a series of masterly thefts does not carry quite the same unique interest of Miss Hunter's situation. This visit will preoccupy a degree of my attention, I am sure."

The detective's attention snapped from Watson quite suddenly. "Helen...you have expressed both unease at the situation and the idea that it may yet be a simple fad. Your considered opinion?"

His words catching her off guard and finding herself under scrutiny by both men, the young woman stiffened a little more where she sat. "I…I believe there is most certainly more here than meets the eye. It is quite possible his wife has a fad. I know many women who do...but never one that required the loss of hair. In fact, given the value most women place upon their hair, it seems a decidedly unfeminine request," she observed.

"A fair point, indeed," Holmes agreed.

"And I agree wholeheartedly with your summation that a truly kind man would never seek to place his child in the care of a woman he knows nothing of. To so dismiss all other applicants whose qualifications were equal or better than Miss Hunter's -- a fact she stated herself -- but pick her instantly without knowing anything about her…it is most certainly unsettling and does speak to other motives."

"If it were you, would you go into such a position?" he asked, leaning forward his eyes keen upon her.

She bit her lip softly as she considered. "I would retain reservations, as I believe she does -- there are too many oddities for that not to be the case -- but, there is nothing concrete and she is much in need of the remuneration...an unfortunate state I remember only too well. So, yes, I believe I would," she replied, her eyes meeting his.

A slight smile tugged at his lips as he nodded. "Yes, I had rather thought so. Though in your case, had it occurred at this point, I would of course have forbidden it absolutely."

Her eyes widened at his words, though a tiny smile of her own appeared on her lips, pleased at his concern for her well-being. "Of course, Sherlock," she agreed demurely after a moment, an evident gleam appearing in her eyes. "And I, _of course_, would have taken that under consideration before I left for Hampshire."

A slight harrumph emanated from Watson's seat, neither of them having to look to know that the good doctor was combating his amusement.

With a slightly arched eyebrow, Holmes regarded his sweetheart's enigmatic smile and the flash of fire in her eyes, reminded that he was neither yet her fiancé nor her husband. "I am immensely gratified by your attentiveness to my opinion, Miss Thurlow," he murmured with more than a hint of humour in his tone as he sat back in his chair, crossing his legs.

"You mentioned that you had encountered strange quirks and fancies yourself. No doubt these arose during your time as a seamstress?" he enquired, evincing an interest in her past, though both Watson and Helen could see the profit in asking such a question at this time.

"I did have a few eccentric customers," she replied, her gaze turning inward as she perused her memory. "There was one lady who, it was rumoured, was the mistress of a member of the House of Lords. She had marvellous taste...but some very odd habits regarding both her arrival and departure and mine that involved taking only specific streets to get to the room she had rented for the fitting. The order of the route changed constantly. This, she said, was because of her belief in astrology and that the order of our routes would lead to a more propitious outcome. I accepted this until I heard about the rumours connecting her to the aforementioned peer of the realm, whereupon concealment seemed a far more likely explanation." She sat back a little against the couch.

"And there was one older client who insisted that all her dresses be of a certain colour...and that her servants only wore a matching colour or black. She even had little jackets made for her cats...of which there were a great many." She laughed a little and shook her head. "When she learned I did not have a dress in her colour du jour she would actually commission me to make such a dress and wear it in her presence...because," she chuckled again, "my garb would otherwise be inharmonious with her furniture."

"Good heavens..." Watson laughed as he moved back to his own chair, "did she really? Well...at the least you obtained a new dress at her expense."

"Oh yes...most certainly. She was a sweet woman...but did have her fads." With a sigh, Helen shook her head. "But apart from that, I don't believe I had any other instances that I would consider odd. I worked occasionally for shops...and my other clients were families whose circumstances were only moderately better than my own. Fads and whimsicality were not much in evidence in either one."

"We are all of us at the mercy of the quirks and foibles of others, I suppose." Watson nodded with a humour-filled glance towards Holmes, who gave a near imperceptible sniff and looked away. "I have one patient, a splendid old lady of eighty-two, who insists I visit her only when her venerable and raucous parrot, whom she is convinced is her long deceased husband incarnate, tells her I may do so. And even then, when I arrive, I must take off my shoes and tie."

An expression of deep amusement formed on Helen's face. "Indeed?"

"Oh yes..." He chuckled, thinking on it further. "Apparently George, her husband, maintained the habit of removing his shoes upon his return home…and the tie..." A slight grimace etched his face before he continued, "The tie…well...I'm rather afraid George met his maker courtesy of the hangman, and she didn't want to upset George_, the parrot_, with nasty reminders." He shook his head and smiled. "She is quite the dear old lady...quite undeserving of a George -- either parrot or man!"

Helen's laughter bubbled up in spite of herself, and she rose to her feet to put away the book she had been looking at before their new client's arrival.

Glancing at Holmes once more, Watson noticed that his friend's eyes had drifted back to the fire and his expression was once again of deep contemplation, lingering upon the visit of Violet Hunter. Rising to his feet, the doctor approached Helen where she stood at the bookshelf. "Mrs Hudson must be delayed somewhat downstairs; would you mind awfully helping me help her along by clearing the dishes?"

The book back where it lived, she turned from the bookcase with a smile. "Of course, John," she agreed, moving over to the table to begin stacking the plates, silverware, and cups.

On carrying the tableware downstairs, they discovered that a discommoded Mrs. Hudson had had troubles with the oven. Assuring them that the matter was in hand and the 'man' sent for, she thanked them profusely for their obliging gesture and sent them on their way with apologies for their having to do so.

Once back outside in the hallway, Watson hesitated a moment before addressing the woman with him as she climbed the first few steps. "Helen." He halted her progress, his hand moving to rest upon the banister. "About Holmes, you mustn't..." A frown crossed his face as he gingerly sought the right words. "You mustn't allow yourself to be upset by his tendency to...concentrate...upon a case."

Clearly discovered, the young woman looked away and down, feeling more foolish than ever about her conflicting emotions. "John...I'm not upset with him, truly. I understand his need to concentrate and I do not begrudge it. This is who he is, his dedication is one of the many reasons I love him so." Her cheeks flushed at that. "But she was so similar to me when I first came here, even her Christian name is my second name, and yet she was…" She trailed off, her hands moving nervously together as she exhaled in frustration at the shortage she perceived in herself somehow.

"I know it is foolish. I know this...feeling...is baseless and groundless. But it _is_ there." She looked up and met his gaze. "I am sure it will pass quite quickly," she assured him, thought it was clear to both that she was forcibly willing it to be so, rather than knowing it was so.

She glanced up the stairs. "I will not burden him with this. He needs to focus his energies...not be concerned about me and my silly baseless worries."

Reaching up, the doctor took her hand with a kind smile. "I am glad that you have taken this line upon it. But I feel bound to say to you in all earnestness that you have nothing to fear," he insisted softly. "I will admit that his admiration for her was...a little more vociferous than usual, but, dear Helen...has it not occurred to you that this is merely because she so reminded him of you? If it is anything at all, it is only a reflection of his esteem for you."

She gave him a tiny smile, not letting him see how it felt more like it was she who was the reflection. "Thank you." She sighed and shook her head. "I've never reacted like this before. It's more than a bit annoying really," she groused lightly, attempting to put a little levity in her tone.

His smile grew a little wider. "It is only natural to be a little possessive and protective of the things we care deeply about." He mounted the step behind her, a slight twinkle in his eye as he reminded her, "For instance…Holmes forbidding you to ever take up such a position?"

She found her smile growing at those words. "I suppose you are right," she agreed, remembering the pleased feeling that had warmed her at his words...even if they were a tad premature.

"At the risk of taking on the assurance associated with my great friend upstairs, I am sufficiently confident in my powers to say, Miss Thurlow, that I _know_ I am." He chuckled and urged her onwards lightly. "Come, let us see if we can't rouse him from his thoughts, what?"

Her smile remained upon her face as they ascended the stairs, but Helen's mind drifted once more to the woman with whom she felt akin and yet found herself so wary of. Unwelcome thoughts flitted through her head unbidden. Miss Hunter was so similar in many ways, and her beau so positive in his thoughts of her. A vision of his hand touching Violet's hair in a manner he had never even attempted with her stabbed at her. Had she herself not entered his life, perhaps Violet Hunter…given enough time and the right circumstances, might be standing where she was now. Time that even now would be afforded her by her beau.

Her eyes narrowed at the thought before annoyance flooded her once more, and she wondered why it was this utter foolishness was so doggedly inserted in her mind. With a force of will, she pushed it firmly to the side and willed John's insight and words to fill her heart and calm her mind.

* * *

_27th April, 1890_

"Might I enquire what it is you are seeking so assiduously?" Watson finally asked his friend as they sat alone in the compartment of the eight fifty morning train from Winchester. "There has not been a day gone this past month or more where you have not dissected with the precision of a surgeon each newspaper that has come within your grasp."

The doctor's tone bore within it more than a hint of exasperation, for with each unsuccessful scan of a page, Holmes would remove it from his sight with a violent burst of rustling and near impenetrable muttering. The continuous disturbance made it nigh on impossible for Watson in his attempts to make notes upon the case at the Copper Beeches that had concluded only the night before.

"Signs, Watson," came the answer from behind _The Times_. "Of ciphers, cryptograms…"

"Of what precisely?"

The paper lowered sharply. "An advertisement."

"A coded advertisement." Watson closed his journal slowly and thought for a moment before nodding. "Ah…of course, you've been seeking the sale of the Ebony Snake."

Holmes sat forward with a slight gleam in his eye. "My obtaining of the advertisement pages of _The Evening Standard_ from the past six months was not in vain. In one issue, dated the fourth of January, hidden within the seemingly innocuous offer of a new suit of clothes from a gentleman tailor's in Camden, I found a coded message. A code that was of no great complexity and which I easily deciphered. The message within was an invitation to submit bids to the tailor's address, for the sale of a minor work by Raphael. A work that had been stolen from the hotel room of Lord Bolton. A source of some great embarrassment to His Lordship as the sketch was on loan to him from its owners in France and he had declined to place it within the safe of the hotel, choosing instead to watch over it himself. It was of course stolen while he slept."

"And you feel that those responsible for that theft were also responsible for Mr Millsbury's Ebony Snake?"

"Unquestionably." The detective sat back. "The keen audacity of the theft, the speed of capitalisation upon the holder's error, and the knowledge required to take advantage of that error -- all are traits evident in both the theft of the Ebony Snake and several other thefts of late, including, I'm afraid, the interception of the transport to the British Museum last week that led to the death of one of the guards on duty."

A frown crossed his face. "Up till now there has been no trace of personal violence involved in the thefts. They have been models of slick efficiency. I sense an urgency that was not there in our man's previous work. Still…" He exhaled. "There is a _modus operandi _evident to me that is as clear as a calling card upon a silver salver. There was, of course, no tailor at the address in Camden, merely a derelict building with some vague traces of disturbance within its dusty confines. Those who had delivered their bids there were too long gone for me to glean anything of value, but it is almost certain that the auction of the other purloined items will be similarly disposed of."

Watson shook his head slowly, an expression of amused resignation on his face. "Heavens, Holmes, will you never allow yourself to rest? No sooner have you thwarted the machinations of Rucastle involving his daughter and a charming lady like Miss Hunter before you have moved on to some other matter."

"Given my intended destination, your question is rather redundant, Watson."

The doctor's light chuckle accompanied his opening his journal again. "Are we on time for your switch to St. Albans?"

"With some half an hour to spare," Holmes answered, his eyes wandering the paper once more.

"Excellent. Secret auction or not, a short period of reflection following the events in Winchester can only benefit you."

Watson's approval was only met by a light sigh from his friend. "My dear chap, perhaps you will be so good as to inform me when I might expect the waning of your unbounded enthusiasm regarding my calling upon Miss Thurlow?"

Looking up from his journal, Watson regarded his friend with surprise that quickly became indignation. "Unbounded enthusiasm? Never was a charge more erroneously placed upon me in all my life. I refute it, sir, I refute it utterly!" His journal closed once more, this time with some resonance.

"I have gone to great pains to disguise my delight at the change in the nature of your relationship. I will admit…" he added after a moment, "that when you came to me and told me that you had put into practice a little of what I had said to you that day in Baker Street and it had resulted in your intention to court Miss Thurlow, I was…_momentarily_…energised." A slight clearing of Watson's throat followed his words as Holmes's eyes drifted back to him, a single arch of the eyebrow conveying volumes.

"Indeed," the detective murmured. "As I recall, your shaking of my hand and slapping of my back was most _energised_. As was the spirited summoning of Mrs. Hudson to relay the news and the lively insistence on a meal at Simpson's."

Watson flushed but stuck to his guns doggedly. "That reaction was exclusively born of exceptional surprise and the pleasure one friend feels for the good fortune of another. And ever since, I have kept in mind your sensitivities in such matters. Not wishing to appear in anyway self-satisfied, I have been nothing but reserved upon the issue," he huffed, his mood not helped by the nascent smile playing about his friend's lips and the realisation that he had inadvertently confessed all as to his true mood.

A second huff pre-empted the doctor's resettling himself and speaking once more. "On the subject of sensitivities, I feel bound to enquire, Holmes, as to whether you have seen Helen over the past two weeks?"

"Twice," the detective replied, reordering the pile of papers beside him. "Though I fail to see what the one has to do with the other."

"I ask primarily as I wondered what she had to say upon the subject of the case involving Miss Hunter?"

"Very little. Hardly surprising given that we had heard nothing from Miss Hunter until we received her letter only two days hence."

"True," Watson agreed, "but in those moments when you have been un-occupied, you have spent a deal of time in quiet deliberation on the matter. You may have mentioned it to Helen…" He paused, his eyes fixing upon Holmes. "Or she to you."

There was a long pause before Holmes turned his head back to his friend. "You are referring to her disquiet about the matter," he stated simply, Watson's nod followed by his own. "While she certainly showed an interest in the well being of Miss Hunter, and was, I noted, eager to hear whether we had heard from her…I could not but notice that in contrast to our other cases, there was a marked reluctance to discuss or theorise upon Miss Hunter and her situation beyond a certain point.

"She is unhappy with my attentions to Miss Hunter." He sighed, crossing his legs and folding his arms as Watson nodded silently once more. "I feared as much."

"I believe Helen to be gravely embarrassed about the situation," said Watson. "While I am bound to say you have been uncommonly generous with your admiration of Violet Hunter…something no lady likes to hear too much of from her sweetheart…she knows there is nothing to it."

"Indeed there is not!" Holmes retorted. "And yet she is discomforted."

"Well…" Watson looked to his journal once more. "It is over now. Miss Hunter is safe and we shall all go our separate ways. I am sure that will be an end to it."

"Are you? While I grant you have the superior knowledge in this area, it seems to me that jealousy without cause is something of a concern. Lady clients make up a considerable portion of those who knock upon the doors of Baker Street," his friend pointed out. "Am I to expect a similar reaction in these cases?"

Shaking his head vigorously, Watson frowned, concerned he might have spoken out of turn and inadvertently caused further upset. "No…truly…I cannot see that being the case, Holmes. Helen was merely disconcerted by Miss Hunter's similarity to herself and…"

"_Was_ she indeed?" Holmes interjected, showing great interest at that.

The doctor's own discomfort showed in his putting aside his book and pencil, eager to assuage his friend. "Holmes, if you are to speak to her upon this matter, I urge you to take into account the type of sensitivities of which I spoke. Helen is, as I say, deeply unhappy with her own reaction to this matter."

"And I am interested in why she should react in this way to this matter," came the reply. "As for the delicacy of the situation, Watson, you act as if I were the most clumsy of bulls in a china shop. I assure you, the dialogue between Miss Thurlow and me has become over the past few months a far more fluid and easy one." Picking up a fresh paper, Holmes began his search anew, his final words on the matter coming from behind the print. "I have not failed to listen to my mentor."

Blinking at the front cover of _The Daily Telegraph_ and taken by surprise, the doctor felt his worry gradually replaced by a slow, pleased smile at the complimentary words aimed at him. His trepidation at what he had set in motion retreating a little, he retrieved his journal and resumed his work, determined to get at least a few more lines written before his friend's muttering began once more.

* * *

"Mr. Rucastle revealed himself to be quite the blackguard in the end," said Helen from where she sat perched upon the edge of her chair in the drawing room of the Twin Birches, as Holmes concluded his recitation of what had occurred in Hampshire. "How easily the face presented to one can prove itself a mask." 

Holmes's nod of agreement was brief as he sat back in his chair by the window and crossed his legs, all ease and comfort. "Still, his efforts came to naught. Miss Rucastle is safe and has her steadfast and most able seaman," he replied, a pause punctuating his words as his keen eyes returned to Helen. "Much credit must go to Miss Hunter, who kept her wits and courage remarkably well. A rare young woman...one hopes she gets her due following this matter. After Watson and I escorted her back to Winchester, she was entirely positive about the future and most grateful, of course."

"Of course," Helen repeated, rising to her feet and moving across the drawing room towards the French doors, using the opportunity of having her back towards him to compose herself and keep him from seeing the flash of irritation on her face.

Holmes looked down at his hands, her own mask confirmed. "As you know, Miss Hunter's situation since she left Baker Street that day has nagged at me. It is difficult to protect someone at such a great distance...I must admit that I am most relieved her safety is assured and that this is over," he continued, lowering his tone.

"As am I," she agreed hastily, turning to face him. "I would never wish for anyone to be in the grip of a man like Mr. Rucastle or in harm's way!"

"Of course you would not."

Seeing his furrowed brow, Helen bowed her head and sat down again, furious at her overreaction. Furious, too, for still being unable to consign this feeling to the past and unable to understand why she was responding this way.

Silence reigned for a moment before he steepled his fingers and spoke softly. "I know only too well that you wish only the best for those deserving souls that seek my help. That you realise, while my work is my work, to my clients it is the most important thing in their lives at that moment in time and requires great attention from me." He looked to her once more. "But that for me, of course, it remains purely my work."

A faint pink tinge rose on her cheeks as she leaned over to pour herself a cup of tea. "Yes…of course. I understand that you must work closely with your clients and that takes a great deal of your time."

"Most certainly," he said, his tone conversational, "and yet as I journeyed here this morning, Watson informed me that he felt you were uncomfortable in my attentions to this particular case…that something about these matters did not sit well with you. This, you may understand, gave me some cause for worry."

Her hand froze upon the tea pot before she sat slowly back against the couch. "I do not begrudge anyone in need of your talents and time. But…" She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to look him in the eye and to be as frank and forthright as she could, though she her mortification was overwhelming. "It is my own weakness, Sherlock, I assure you. Miss Hunter is a most intelligent and striking woman...and as you say, capable to boot." She swallowed, and blushed even deeper. "And your admiration was quite…vocal..." Her voice trailed off, embarrassed to have been so easily read and afraid he would think less of her for her failing to control this ridiculous emotionality.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, he extracted the silver cigarette case she had given him for Christmas, opening it and drawing out one slender cylinder of tobacco, tapping it gently on the holder. "Yes, she was an intelligent, capable woman...and a man's interest could easily be caught by her. But my interest in her did not extend beyond a desire to see her safe." Placing his cigarette in his mouth, he found his matches and lit it, inhaling slowly. "My interest is firmly engaged elsewhere..." Helen's lips curled a little in an uneasy smile at his words before he continued, "However, so is my concern."

"Do not be concerned," she urged quickly, her fingers fiddling nervously with a frill on the small cushion on her chair. "I know my worries were not rational or even valid...hence, why I did not speak with you about them. Please, Sherlock…I would not have you think the less of me for this."

The smoke curled up around his head slowly before he flicked his ash into a nearby ashtray. "How could I? When I myself was so recently afflicted by the same wretched emotion?" he gently reminded her, assuaging her worries somewhat.

"Thank you," she murmured, appreciative of his understanding.

"However, I remain concerned. There are differences in our experiences, and I cannot help but wonder whether your reaction to Miss Hunter will be something that I will see again." He raised his hand to stop her before she could respond. "Jealousy over what you do not have is envy...as I know. Jealousy over what you have and are worried you might lose to another is insecurity. Do you doubt the sincerity of my feelings for you, Helen?" he asked simply.

"No!" she replied instantly, distressed at his thinking it might be so. "My anxieties are about myself...never about you."

He regarded her silently as he flicked more ash into the tray. "I see. You feel you are lacking in some way?"

She gazed back at him, his vocalising that fear striking at something deep in her core. Something that had existed within her from the first day she had realised she had begun to feel for him as more than a friend and an idea that had helped convince her for so long that he would never return her affections. Something that had clearly not dissipated with his doing just that. Rising slowly to her feet once more, she took a few steps through the room, trying to collect her thoughts and frame her words correctly without embarrassing herself further.

"It is foolish," she murmured after pushing open the French doors that led to the stone veranda, inhaling the fresh spring air.

"No doubt," he replied with a small smile, watching her where she stood. "Heightened emotions invariably are."

"I...I am not a worldly woman, Sherlock," she replied, turning to him, her voice soft as she tried to keep it level. "Well, not in the ways of the heart. I have only ever been courted by either you or William. You matter more to me than I have words to express, but…" She hesitated, glancing down at her hands and back at him before drawing herself up. "But I am not a great beauty nor the most intelligent, inventive, and knowing of women. It is a foolish thought, as I say. I should know better than to allow it even the slightest harbour within me. But…it remains just the same. And…I must admit to wondering sometimes, what it is you see in me?" Her eyes found his. "How is it that I caught your eye? Why me? I am just Helen Thurlow..."

He sighed, his expression rueful. "I sense something of the writing hand of the good doctor and his depictions of me and my clients of the female sex at the back of this. Such are the dangers of putting emphasis on trivialities." Putting out his cigarette, he tapped his hand lightly upon the arm of his chair before he stood, his hands clasping themselves behind his back.

"The truth of it, Helen, is that you did not catch my eye," he answered. "I paid no more thought to you in those first days after your case than I will to Violet Hunter now her case is concluded. The catching of a man's eye is the most flimsy of hooks, based on beauty and beauty alone. I am pleased to say that I have never been so caught.

"My attention has been caught, I will admit, by a combination of beauty, intelligence, and grace that I considered an ideal. But an ideal is only a distant illusion, nothing more, and is kept only in the back of the mind to surface on rare occasions. As blunt as it may sound, you captured neither my eye nor my attention when first I knew you.

"You were Helen Thurlow..._just_ Helen Thurlow, as you say. An open, capable woman of integrity who was in need of first my talents and, subsequently, my colleague's advice and friendship. And through that link and in a warm and inquisitive way you came to garner mine also. You had my friendship and were just Helen Thurlow.

"Over time, you proved your capabilities, interests, and insight greater then I had suspected and your genial nature greater still. There are few enough women as willing to assist a gentleman in the making of an explosive as accompany him to the Royal Albert Hall for a concert, after all." He smiled a little and moved to stand by her side, gazing out through the open French windows as she continued to look inwards into the room.

"Over time, your companionship became as valued to me as that of my only other true friend. Your integrity, honesty, and sense of humanity as great as his. It grew as his and mine had grown, through trust and discourse. _Still_, you were just Helen Thurlow.

"And then, as I had led myself to expect, you drew away and found Captain Edwards..." His eyes took in the budding leaves upon the apple tree nearby. "And I discovered the unexpected…that I missed your companionship, support, gentle warmth, and even those short impetuous bursts of fire that you endeavour to keep hidden but which slip from you in your words and eyes all the same.

"That I resented the loss of it to another is no great addition to my character, but the truth all the same. But in that resentment, I discovered how much of myself I had invested in your presence. The culmination of which was the knowledge that while you had not captured my eye, nor my attention...you had quietly and effectively corralled my heart and taken it right away with you. And still...you were_ just_ Helen Thurlow."

As he turned to her, she looked up at him, her eyes wide at his words. He regarded her slowly, his voice soft. "You fear a strike of lightening. Something that will distract me from you. A pretty face to catch the eye, an ideal to catch the attention, but I have encountered both and while they have piqued my intellectual interest or my imagination, they have not touched my heart, never mind captured it. Only Helen Thurlow. _Just _Helen Thurlow.

"Which is why it is dispiriting that she fails now to see the worth in herself that I can...and that she believes that I could replace her in my heart when she holds it in her hands." He turned away from the window and moved back across the room to stoop and pick up his matches.

Barely a moment later as he remained bent over, a small hand slipped into his free one. "I am so sorry, Sherlock." Her quiet voice shook slightly as it came from behind him, his words having affected her deeply. "Please forgive me and forget my foolishness."

Facing her and her hand still in his, he took in her abashed and awed countenance. A quiet smiling sough escaped him as he shook his head slowly, telling himself how foolish he was in forgetting that, while she may not have had much of the coy artfulness and manipulative qualities in her personal dealings that made him distrust her sex, she was still a woman and subject to much of what came with that state. "I will on two conditions," he answered.

"Anything," she agreed instantly, gazing up at him in earnest.

"One -- you will cease to think yourself less worthy than any woman on this earth," he told her sternly.

She flushed bright pink, but nodded.

His eyes took in a stray curl upon her cheek that the spring air had tugged from its place, and as though it was almost compelled to do so, his free hand rose, touching the soft auburn lock gently and letting it slip over and around his fingers. His eyes continuing to examine it, the backs of his fingers slowly brushed the soft curve of her cheek, enticing her breath to quicken just a little.

"And two…" He tucked the curl behind her ear, feeling a slight shiver slip from her as his touch lingered upon her. "You will never again doubt that the hold you have exerted upon me is unique and that my loyalty to that hold is absolute."

"I promise," she answered softly with more than just conviction shining in her eyes.

"Very well," he approved before gradually becoming acutely aware of their close proximity to one another. "I…I believe I will have a little more of that tea now."

The whisper of his touch still tingling through her skin and his words in her consciousness, Helen found that the heat that burned in her face was, for once, not the result of a blush. And while she was aware that she should not be so placed when alone with him, she stepped back from him only slowly, her fingers slipping from his grasp unhurriedly. "Yes...of course," she answered, eyes remaining upon him before she composed herself, this time with a smile, and moved back to her seat to fulfil his request.

As he resumed his seat, she set about pouring the tea as well as offering him a slice of cake. "You mentioned John's writings as having a hand in my thoughts," she ventured, glancing at him as he took it. "I confess he has shown me some of his notes on your cases not yet published."

"I had no doubt of it," Holmes replied, sitting back and perching his plate and cake upon the arm of his chair. "Nor of which ones were most influential."

She flushed a little, various cases springing to mind, but none more so than that of the redoubtable Irene Adler, a memento of which still hung unabashedly on her suitor's watch chain. "To be fair, it was not just John's work. You are suitably daunting, Sherlock…and impressive. There are not many who would not feel somewhat inadequate in your presence." While he said nothing, the glint in his eyes proved his contentment with her words. "Will John choose to compile the incident at the Copper Beeches for publication, do you feel?"

"He is already at work upon it."

Moving to refresh her own cup of tea, Helen paused and looked to the detective. "Perhaps…" she began before pausing once more.

"Perhaps?" His enquiry was immediate.

Her gaze was evaluating as she sat forward somewhat. "It is but a thought…but perhaps there might be a way to work my foolishness to our advantage?"

"Proceed." He nodded for her to continue, his manner intrigued.

"Well…you have gone to great pains to disguise our relationship as merely that of companions." Her smile took on a mildly mischievous manner. "Might we not ask John perhaps to, for once, err deliberately towards some slight sensationalism?"

Holmes's brow furrowed momentarily before his aspect lightened. "And transfer a little of your thoughts towards my interest in Miss Hunter to the written word? Link her name to mine?"

"Not to any exaggerated extent," she guaranteed him. "I am quite sure Miss Hunter would not thank us for playing with the truth. But…" She smiled again. "Enough that it might perhaps serve as a useful dissimulation of the true standing of your personal affairs."

An enigmatic smile tugged at his lips, as if he were finding the idea a good one and aware, too, of the offer she was making. "You would be content to see it so?"

Finished freshening her tea, Helen placed the pot down and smiled at him. "I am content, Mr. Holmes, with the truth of your words. All else is fiction and fantasy."

* * *

**_Authors' Note: Greetings all! Sorry it took a few extra days, but I had a nice no online day yesterday and relaxed a bit. But now I have a quiet few minutes here, I'm free to upload the latest chapter. :D I hope everyone enjoyed it and that we did Sir Arthur a tad of justice (we've never played with a canon case before...tis a bit intimidating!). Also, I think we've all noticed the return of no-longer-akward Holmes as this week Helen had an issue of her own to deal with. Next week...the mystery starts! It was going to be two chapters, but it is now looking more like three...and is almost entirely in Holmes's perspective (heh...his turn is up!). What will it be about? Well, all I can tell you is that we've laid many a clue previously and is titled Blind Justice. So stay tuned! Again, thank you all for all the kind reads and/or reviews! We love hearing from you! Huggles! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**

**_Additional: Thank you to Baskerville Beauty for her suggestion on a sentence...as you can see we've taken her advice. Merci, lady! _**


	5. Blind Justice Part One

**_Chapter Five: Blind Justice --Part One_**

_London, 30th May, 1890_

Shadowed and silent, the cowled and balaclava masked figure moving through the lower halls of the privileged household froze when a loud crack emanated from behind him. Cursing under his breath at the folly of his cohorts, he waited, poised and ready to flee should their ineptness alert anyone in the sleeping mansion to their presence.

When no lights were slipped on or sounds heard, he moved once more with utter focus, his destination long since determined.

When he reached the heavy, carved double doors, his black gloved hands gripped the bronzed handles and carefully, quietly, pushed them inwards. Stepping inside, he showed no hesitation or deviation of gaze as he moved, across the Persian rug that carpeted the central part of the huge darkened library, towards the furthermost bookshelf, illuminated only by moonlight.

"Your stealthy qualities are to be admired, sir," a voice spoke up, startling the intruder so badly that he jumped as he spun in the direction of the calm, sonorous voice. Rising up from the shadowed depths of the wing backed chair he occupied, Holmes faced his long sought after thief.

Silence greeted the detective, the shadows augmenting the man's dissimulation and leaving him a black wraith to the detective, who inclined his head with a grim expression.

"My compliments on such a long and elusive spell of thievery. The Moravian Star, the Renoir, the Ebony Snake -- you have an admirable track record in the planning and execution of these robberies. Even if the widow of the guard on the transport from Paddington to the British Museum carrying the Sceptre of Abydos might not appreciate the more subtle aspects of your planning. So for her sake and the satisfaction of my curiosity…let us unmask the man who caused first mayhem and then death." He took a step forward, only to be stopped by an old fashioned pistol emerging from within the folds of the black coat his adversary was wearing.

The masked head shook slowly from side to side in denial and warning, the gun in his gloved hand gesturing for Holmes to move away from him back to the chair he had been sitting in.

"I take it that rather charmingly nostalgic piece is the same weapon that ended the life of Jack Halliwell," Holmes observed, taking in the rather antique looking gun while doing as silently requested. "There is really no further need for it…your friends have already been apprehended thanks to the efforts of my colleague Dr. Watson and the police under Inspector Lestrade." He smiled as the thief's glance moved back towards the door through which he had entered. "The crash," the detective confirmed.

He took his seat as the shadowed mastermind backed himself away towards the far bookcase, his eyes darting between Holmes and the door as the sound of distant voices became more audible.

Holmes watched the increasing agitation in his quarry intently. "I decided there were two prime targets for your activities in London this week – Mrs. Van den Volk's priceless pearl collection in the safe at Brown's…or the more challenging option of the Hapsburg Diamond. The pearl collection is the greater prize, and given the publicity the redoubtable Mrs. Van den Volk's tour of Europe has created, it would have made far more international headlines; something I believe you would enjoy.

"From my observations of your exploits and methods of disposal, I discern you have a veiled tendency towards egotism, sir." Holmes shifted a little, his hands gently gripping the arms of his chair. "One would think you would have gone to ground after the murder. But I suspected from the rushed audacity of the raid on the transport that you would not. However," the fingers of his left hand thrummed on the leather of the chair, "at least you had sufficient respect for the death of Mr. Halliwell and the hangman's noose that now awaits you to make you wary of too much glare.

"I had Inspector Girard of the Yard primed at Brown's to cover any attempt you might have made on the pearls, but…" he smiled tightly, "it seemed to me that, all in all, you would prefer the smaller prize, especially with the owners, the Moncrieffs, in the country for the weekend." He gestured towards the other man calmly. "And evidently I was proven correct. So I chose to cover the house myself and at the last minute called upon Inspector Lestrade to aid me with some men."

The voices outside were louder now as Holmes kept talking, clearly keeping the thief in place with his exposition of events. He watched as the intruder's free hand moved over the books by his side, backing himself into a corner, his gun still trained on the detective. Holmes took the chance of rising again slowly.

"Come, sir, you have played a memorable game…but you have lost and must now pay the price. Even if you were to shoot me there is no way out, all exits have been covered…" He watched as the fingers of the man in black curled tightly about a large leather bound volume, and the detective soughed softly. "And the spring loaded book that acts as a lever to open the panel where the safe is located is at _this_ end of the bookshelf, not where you stand."

It was, however, Holmes who was left surprised when the man before him pulled on the book nonetheless. The section that was revealed when the bookshelf pulled back noiselessly showed not a safe but a passageway…a method of escape unknown to him.

The moment the thief's gaze left the confounded Holmes and turned towards the blackness behind him, the detective sprang into action, rushing the thief in an effort to stop him and crying out to encourage his colleagues to hurry. As Holmes's shout echoed through the room, the gun barrel turned back towards him and a shot rang out.

Holmes desperately threw himself to the ground, the bullet lodging itself in the chair he had been in moments before. Scrambling up, he launched himself at the figure of the escaping man as he turned to run once more.

The struggle that ensued saw the interloper urgently trying to angle the muzzle of his weapon back towards his pursuer, their hands locking together in a frantic struggle of aggression and containment. The gun between them rose higher and higher, until the evenly matched combatants eyed each other over the black metal.

Just as the door to the library burst open and figures flooded into the shadowed room, the two men lurched off balance into the tunnel, taking them out of the sight of the new arrivals, the open barrel of the pistol pressing into the interior wall of the passageway. With a loud growl, the thief arched his back away in an effort to pull himself from Holmes, and as he did so his finger squeezed around the trigger.

The second report from the gun was accompanied by a massive flash as the gun backfired spectacularly.

Running through the room, Watson and Lestrade, his men behind him, froze for a split second as the cry of a familiar voice accompanied the shot. "Holmes!" the doctor called out and made haste again for the inky black of the tunnel into which he had seen his friend disappear.

What he found as the lights were brought up caused his breath to rush from his lungs -- the smoking remains of the old pistol damaged by the explosive force that had emerged from its rear, and Holmes, collapsed and curled in a near ball of agony, his head buried in his hands. And no sign of their ultimate catch.

Trying to keep his head while faced with his fallen colleague, Watson moved to one side to clear access to the passageway and looked to Lestrade, pointing at the tunnel beyond the detective. "There…he's gone that way." Pointing to two of his men, the Inspector gave a nod and the fallen detective a concerned look before determinedly moving past both men to give chase, leaving one man with Watson.

Once they were gone, the doctor dropped to his knees by his friend. "Holmes? Holmes, where are you hurt?"

When the only response he received was a pained moan, Watson's stomach tightened. Taking a deep breath and steeling himself for the worst, he prepared to move past his personal connection to his friend, calling on his medical training for detachment. As he took that breath, however, positioned as close to Holmes as he was, he caught an unmistakable smell…a scent he had encountered far too often when in the military -- the scent of cordite mingled with burnt flesh.

Carefully moving his hands to Holmes's forearms, he lowered his voice to a quiet, encouraging whisper. "Holmes…old chap…you must take your hands away. Let me see what has happened. Let me help."

Gently putting pressure on Holmes's arms, he endeavoured to guide his friend's hands from his face, feeling Holmes shudder bodily as the surrounding air rushed in to touch the skin below.

What the doctor saw was exactly what he expected -- an extensive section of Holmes's upper face blackened and burned, the swelling already starting. Beside him the young officer winced at the sight while, shivering on the ground, Holmes dragged in a juddering breath.

"Bad?" he croaked with as much equanimity as he could, shivering again as the shock engendered by the deep burns from the gunpowder began to take hold of him.

"No, not too bad," Watson lied, the charred, cracked, and blistering skin before him turning a rapidly swelling mix of black and red. Taking off his heavy overcoat, he laid it over his friend to warm him.

"Where is he?" the second shaky question came, Holmes's mind still on the case.

"On the run," the doctor replied curtly, reaching for his handkerchief. Gazing around, he spied a bottle of soda water by the decanters of whiskey and brandy. Looking up at the remaining officer, he instructed him with a silent gesture to fetch it for him, which the young man did with alacrity. "Lestrade and his men are in pursuit."

"Misfired gun…classic case…" Holmes swallowed, using his words to counteract the unrelenting pain, his burnt nerve endings torturing him. "Old pistol…barrel blocked…fascinating really."

"I'm sure." Watson nodded, taking the soda bottle from the police man and grimly drenching his handkerchief with the water. "We'll need to get you to a hospital quickly, old man. We need to treat those burns."

"Yes…" the detective agreed with an imperceptible nod, striving to keep his voice light. "Quite painful…I can feel the swelling…keeping my eyes shut…"

Watson paused in his attempt to place the cooling handkerchief over the affected area. "Again, Holmes?"

"My eyes…" Holmes shifted slightly. "Can't open them."

Watson nodded slowly. "Of course…don't worry about it. We'll get it sorted," he said encouragingly as he and the officer exchanged grave looks. "Just you rest easy…" he told the detective as he reached out and gently drew the wet cloth down over his colleague's injuries…and in doing so, closing the badly burned and unfeeling eyelids over Holmes's sightless eyes.

* * *

_Sussex, 1911_

It is with something more than a degree of reluctance that I seat myself at my writing desk to recount what is, to my mind, a comparatively uninteresting episode of my dealings with the underworld. In fact, I freely confess to doing so only to avoid the interminable haranguing I have endured of late at the hands of Watson.

The good doctor refuses to undertake the task himself, insisting that this tale must be added to the raft of covert, un-publishable, and confidential series of events he is collating for private consumption…and that the telling can be done by none other save myself.

His reasoning for my taking up the mantle of author in his stead is, as is invariably the case, irredeemably emotive. His assertion that the singular audience in question is deserving of hearing my voice directly is dubious, considering they have spent a goodly portion of their time endeavouring to ignore it.

And while he is correct that the events of these days contain elements of a strongly personal nature of which I am therefore best placed to speak, that in no way convinces me that this is a tale worth the telling…rather the reverse seems to me to be true. Especially as there are elements of my behaviour described, which, while interesting from an analytic perspective, are somewhat less than flattering to remember.

Still, as my ego is not so inflated as some would have you believe, I shall accede at last to this flood of requests and hopefully in the doing, resume my relatively serene life here in the Sussex Downs.

The background to this case lies in a series of high profile robberies occurring on and off during the years of 1889 and 1890. The varying intervals and different numbers involved -- sometimes one man, sometimes more -- up to and including a heavily armed gang -- led to the police scrutinising varying suspects.

I had been hired privately following the clever theft and replacement of an Ebony Snake of some considerable worth from the Millsbury Estate near Manchester. After some short time upon the case, I rapidly became convinced, due to the thief's meticulous attention to detail, that the man responsible for the theft of the jewelled serpent also had a hand in these other cases.

After the death of a British Museum guard however, these cases too were brought to my attention by Scotland Yard. And once I had spoken with them about my suspicions, I was given licence to pinpoint those targets that might tempt our man next and with the aid of the police, set an ambush.

With two excellent prizes -- the Van Der Volk pearls and The Hapsburg Diamond -- both in London at the same time, I quite correctly felt that our man would not be able to resist one or other of them. With Inspector Girard, now nearing retirement but a decorated soldier in the Crimea in his time and far and away one of the Yard's best men, installed as chief investigating officer, Watson and I constructed a trap based around the Van Der Volk pearls which the Inspector was to implement.

I then confided in Watson that in actuality the Hapsburg Diamond, in the hands of Mr. and Mrs. Jonathon Moncrieff of Rhodesia, would be the more tempting target and with the aid of our old foil Lestrade set up a secretive secondary trap.

This proved to be an unmitigated disaster from start to finish. Our mastermind escaped our clutches, leaving us with a handful of promoted prigs and mobsmen, none of whom were any the wiser as to the identity of their employer than we were. And, perhaps even more embarrassingly, it left me in a state of severe incapacitation, rushed to Cambridge Place and the confines of the Marylebone & Paddington Hospital.

The news as well as word of my injury and the debacle was not slow in reaching the newsmen. Watson reported to me that it was being said that my wounds, which were to my face and eyes, were in fact life threatening and I was dawdling at death's very door. Unsurprising given the fact that none of the journalists in question had seen either me or my doctors, and so the story that went to print was naturally erroneous and sensationalist.

The events of the case itself were more accurately reported. Although on being interviewed later, Inspector Lestrade left the pressmen in no doubt as to how the attempt to catch the architect of the audacious thefts had failed. That in essence, I had been spectacularly outmanoeuvred.

The celebrated Sherlock Holmes had clearly underestimated his man this time, the ingenious, ruthless thief escaping his clutches and leaving the amateur detective as another victim of his villainous ways. There was, of course, no mention that Lestrade himself had given chase to the man and had failed to apprehend him.

Lestrade reiterated my amateur status so often as to almost make it a mantra. Warning all and sundry in the most grim and solemn of tones that this failure and injury was the risk an amateur ran when 'meddling' in what were essentially police affairs, while ignoring that it had been the police who had asked for my aid in the first place.

The Inspector's reaction was hardly unexpected. He was, after all, a man who more often than not gave only the most grudging of credit where it was due, while given to lighting upon every perceived weakness of another's work in order to make himself sound more knowledgeable and important. Still, there was an element of truth in his report, and it was something I myself was dwelling on even before I heard his words later. I_ had_ been outmanoeuvred…_and _quite spectacularly.

This mastermind whom I had studied for a month in an effort to catch him had outflanked me. His knowledge of the presence of another tunnel of which I had no inkling showed an insight into his target that was quite exceptional, even by his previous standards.

As queer as it may sound, it was this, rather than my being rendered sightless, which was uppermost in my mind when I insisted to Watson that I wished to discharge myself and return home to Baker Street from the Infirmary. I had been treated, my eyes bound up, and morphine had been administered, so that I was in no discomfort.

In the hours after my diagnosis, I could tell I was causing the medical men gathered about me some considerable consternation by my refusal to discuss my injury in any great depth and patently ignoring the ramifications of my sight not returning. My decision to discharge myself from their care while insisting on their not releasing the truth of my condition to the press or public was greeted by a mass exodus of frustration.

Thus a protracted discussion broke out between an at first intransigent Watson and me.

"Holmes, reconsider," Watson said when we were alone. "Your eyes…you require medical attention."

Seated upright in my bed as I was, I turned my bandaged head towards the sound of his earnest voice, the vaguest of smiles on my lips. "Am I to understand that if I return home I may not count on you for that?"

"Of course you may!" he exclaimed, somewhat flustered. "I just…."

"Come, Watson," I interjected, "you told me yourself not ten minutes ago that there is nothing more that can be done for me. That if the gunpowder flash that scorched my eyes did sufficient damage, my eyesight will not return, and only time will afford us the answer to that. Tell me now, what is the difference between my sitting here, receiving treatment for the outward manifestations of my injuries and waiting to see what the fate of my vision is, and my doing the same at home while continuing my investigation?"

His tone was incredulous. "_Continuing_ your investigation? Holmes, my dear fellow, how can you possibly think of working on?" he asked, his worry for me and my future colouring his voice.

His emotions did not, however, register upon me in the slightest.

At this point I must, I suppose, make a clean breast of it and admit that in the aftermath of my discovery of the loss of my sight I had retreated into a mindset of obdurate defiance. Though, of course, I did not recognise it as such at the time.

I find it fascinating now from the vantage point of some years on, to recall how quickly and cleanly I accepted that my eyesight might not return. But moreover with simultaneous and equal equanimity, I decided that my injury would not affect my work in any way and dealt with any suggestions to the contrary with increasing irritation.

"There is a murderer and thief on the loose that I am still best placed to catch. How can I _not_?" I put it to my loyal friend with an edge that might cut crystal. "Why do you think I told the good doctors that I did not wish my true condition revealed? If the world believes me deathly ill, I may continue my work with impunity."

I could clearly hear him draw breath to argue further, my other senses already starting to compensate for the loss of my sight, but instead, recognising sensibly that I was not for turning, he humoured me with a sigh. "Work might be just the ticket to pass the time until…your sight returns."

"Precisely my thinking on the matter," I replied. "Now if you will be so good as to retrieve my clothes for me, I will dress for the journey home."

"Let me help you…" he said as he drew closer, and my hand stopped him.

"I'll do this myself," I informed him bluntly.

With a show of resolve, I dressed, slowly and methodically, each button of my waistcoat closing in the correct buttonhole. Leaving me to my own devices, Watson went to fetch us a cab and in doing so, met our Inspector Lestrade in the company of the young police officer who had helped Watson take me to hospital while the others went in pursuit of our thief. Taking them into our confidence regarding the true state of affairs and my wishes, Watson cleverly received the Inspector's assurances that both of them would keep my condition to themselves and that not even his superiors in the Yard would know the truth.

No doubt this suited the Inspector eminently well, as in one fell swoop it removed me from the limelight and left him centre stage upon the case with Inspector Girard. While at the same time, it also left me able to continue to work on the case and thereby be a source of information for him by which he, and not Girard, could impress his superiors.

When we were done, we exited incognito by the rear of the hospital to avoid the still gathered clutch of reporters.

On our way back to Baker Street, I explained to Watson that I would require him to be my legs and eyes upon the street as I continued my investigation. Something he agreed to, albeit reluctantly. His humour was not improved by my subsequent suggestion that he wire my then particular lady friend, Miss Helen Thurlow, to inform her that reports in the papers were wildly exaggerated and that she should not worry, but remain in her home in St. Albans.

"But surely," he said incredulously to me, "you wish her to know the truth of your condition?"

"To what end?" I replied, noting the twists and turns of the journey and estimating where it was precisely we must be. "If my eyesight returns then she will be worried for nothing. If it does not…well…we shall deal with that when we come to it," I added dismissively.

His tone was intensely serious. "Holmes, after all our discussions about the necessity for communication in these kinds of relationships, you…"

My hand quelled him once more. "This is not about our relationship. This is about my work. I am still in the midst of a case, and her worry is a distraction I cannot afford."

"But, Holmes, if I am to be gone in your service, she may be of use to you. You will require help," he insisted, meaning of course to be practical. At that point, however, his words served only to highlight my impairment, something I myself could speak of but had no interest in acknowledging from others. It is an interesting behavioural reaction that I have spoken of since with some Viennese psychoanalysts of my acquaintance.

"Will you do as I ask?" I said with a coldness that discomfits me to remember now. "Or must I seek another messenger?"

Good friend that he is, he agreed.

Better friend that he is, he disregarded the majority of my instructions as I discovered to my chagrin the following morning.

The doorbell of 221b had been jangling non-stop from daybreak once it had been discovered by the members of the press that I had been 'whisked away' from the hospital. My removal seemed to fuel even greater rumours of my imminent demise as I clearly must have returned to the comforts and solitude of Baker Street to depart to my maker in peace.

Mrs. Hudson, to her credit, recovered quickly from her shock and worry on seeing me as I was, the tremor in her voice replaced by her admirable Scots pragmatism, and she played her part well. Eliciting the aid of some of the local constabulary, she succeeded in chasing away those lingering reporters away from Baker Street, admonishing them to 'have some respect.'

So when the doorbell rang once more, disturbing the peaceful hour of solitude I had had since the last caller, I assumed it to be a more inventive journalist who had evaded the baleful glares of Constables Mercer and Murphy, stationed at either end of the street. But as I listened, seated upright in my bed, the absence of Mrs. Hudson's heretofore muffled antagonism from below followed by the quiet closing of the door and low feminine murmuring left me in no doubt as to the identity of the visitor and that Dr. Watson and I would be having words.

Dressed but wrapped in my dressing gown as I was, I raised my head from where it rested upon my chest, my thoughts having previously been sifting through the events of the night before and what I might glean from them. The old pistol, the cut of his clothing, gloves, mask, what scent if any he had exuded, his height and weight -- all left me…my quiet contemplation shattered as I turned my bandaged eyes towards the direction of the landing and followed the familiar footfalls and rustle of dress fabric that were not those of my landlady.

Normally, I would hesitate to comment upon any lone unmarried lady entering the bedroom of a bachelor; however, it was a room of convalescence at the time, no different than a hospital room with as diligent a Matron as you like roaming the floor below. So when the door to my bedroom clicked open and Helen Thurlow's soft, familiar tread moved through the room, neither of us regarded it as improper. Only soundless annoyance greeted her arrival.

She did not speak at first, and instead I heard the clink of a well set and laden tray being set down on the little table that had been cleared next to my bed, the aromas of my breakfast powerfully assaulting my heightened olfactory sense. Once that had been accomplished, I was greeted not by the tremulous worry that had accompanied Mrs. Hudson's greeting but rather with a cheery voiced, "Good morning, Sherlock."

My bound eyes refused to turn to her, my displeasure clear in my voice. "Thank you for bringing me my breakfast, Helen," said I, swinging my legs towards the side of the bed and placing my stockinged feet upon the floor. "However, I am rather busy at the moment, so you must excuse me."

Naturally, knowing Miss Thurlow's tendency towards stubbornness of old, I did not remotely expect that to be an end of it and was not proven incorrect.

"May I enquire as to what?" came her reply, and though I was both blind and bound about the eyes, I could almost see the accompanying arch of her slender eyebrow.

"I am in the midst of a case," said I as I rose to my feet.

"Ah yes. So I have heard," she answered me softly, not moving from where she stood and her voice striking me as a little richer and more full of subtle inflection than I had previously heard it before. "Just as I heard you had agreed with John to stay in bed."

"All agreements are made null and void by his disregarding my wishes regarding you," I answered sharply, my irritation flashing as I walked forward.

Having already spent a good part of the morning in the company of Watson, counting the steps from my bed to the door and about the sitting room of my flat, I moved with relative confidence.

"I see. You are upset because you wished to inform me first?" she enquired as I passed her, her scent, which was a delicate fragrance, seeming twice as evident to me.

"I more than strongly suspect," I retorted, my hands finding the door, "that you know full well it is because I did not wish you to know at all."

She followed close behind me as I exited, her skirt's rustle alerting me just how close. "Ah yes," she said mildly, "and perhaps you might inform me how it was that I would not have discovered your true state? Because you may rest assured, Mr. Holmes, that I would not remain at St. Albans if there was the even the slightest hint of your being injured, 'exaggerated' or not." She referred to my intended telegram rather than the one she obviously received. "I may be a woman, Sherlock, but as you have in fact stated, I am a perceptive one. I _think_ I would have noticed."

"Very well," I replied, turning after carefully measuring out the distance between the door and the couch. "Allow me to rephrase my answer. I did not wish you here while this is ongoing."

"Indeed...and what if it continues to go on? Would I be barred from your presence for the next month? Two? A year?" She took a step towards me, her voice still remarkably calm and level and her enquiries almost casual. "Are we in a relationship, Sherlock?"

"Do not be theatrical, Helen," I retorted as I moved to the couch, using the heat from the fire as a guide. "I have a case to complete. You know my wishes regarding your presence while one is ongoing."

"I am not talking about the case," she said firmly. "We are supposed to be forging a path together. Do you not think being shot and blinded counts as something that I should be made aware of? Do you not think that what happens to you affects me? That this counts as important enough?" Now, at last, her own irritation flashed through her words. "You know I have no wish to interfere in your work...but did you not think the news would have been perhaps easier to hear from your own lips or at least a cable?"

"I wished to resolve the situation without any inconvenience to you...this..." I gestured towards my bandaged face. "This may all blow over in a matter of days. I saw no particular reason to involve you in it and make you feel as if you had to attend upon me. You have your own business, after all."

Turning towards my chair, I moved to it, a little more quickly than I should have in my distraction. For in doing so, my foot caught upon the brass rail around the grate and I stumbled forward, colliding with my desk. It was in that moment that Miss Thurlow revealed her insight with regards to my state. Having ascertained my mindset and knowing I would not thank her for any help, she refrained from what would have been her natural inclination -- to aid me, and instead remained where she was, only her voice carrying to me.

"Yes...I do have my own business. It is very important and does require a great deal of my attention as of late," she agreed quietly before her tone grew even more firm. "But if you think for one moment that my father's business would take priority over you at such a time...then you are sadly mistaken."

She inhaled slowly, her voice softening. "I understand that the nuances of such relationships are still a learning process for you...but you should know that when one of the parties is injured or in a potential life altering state, it is usually customary for him or her to inform the other." I could hear the smile in her gently teasing words. "There is strength in knowing you are not facing such a problem alone. That there is someone always there to walk it with you."

"I appreciate your concern, Helen," I said as I sat, "but there is no need for you to be here at this time. I shall be fine."

I heard her sink into the opposite chair. "For a man of science and logic...you are illogically wilful at times, Sherlock Holmes."

Being accused of obtuse behaviour by this particular judge actually served to make me laugh. "Indeed so? I fail to see how. I have matters well in hand. Watson and I are continuing upon the case. In time these..." I gestured to the bandages once more, "will be removed and we shall see what we shall see…or not, as the case may be," I answered flippantly. "As I say, I would not have you waste your time with matters that are already in hand."

She was silent for a moment and I could feel her eyes heavy upon me. Her next words came as no surprise to me, as those too I could feel hanging between us well before they arrived at my unwilling ears.

"Matters well in hand?" she repeated. "Sherlock...you can't see. John cannot stay by your side indefinitely, nor always be your eyes and legs. Mary requires him at home and there is his practice. To think otherwise is being unremittingly selfish," she admonished me severely. "How are you to read your correspondence? To write it? You cannot leave your house unaided. How are you to use your insights and gather clues if you cannot even see them?

"A great deal of your deductions are based on sight. Even if this is a temporary situation...how can you make them in the meantime? You _require_ further assistance, Sherlock." She sighed. "You are a prideful man. A fact you know as well as I. Perhaps in this one instance, you would consider putting that aside? Not for emotional reasons if that makes you uncomfortable, but for practical purposes. For the continuation of this case?"

Her appeal was in hindsight completely logical and correct in every respect, even down to her addressing my sensible rather than emotional side. But a man in my condition, so soon after this kind of event, errs more towards the emotional than the sensible, as my defensive reaction indicated. For I did not hear good advice but a portrait painted of my fallibility.

"It is exactly as I suspected it would be." My jaw tightened, my hands closing around the arms of my chair. "You think me an invalid to be aided and pitied. I have been thus discommoded for less than a day, and in that time, I have already succeeded in negotiating my way around my rooms remarkably well given the short amount of time I have devoted to its practice. The fact that I tripped once is evidence of very little other than the distraction I was hoping to avoid. Watson has already given his undertaking to aid me in this case. And even this is not a temporary situation...I assure you, I will continue in my work."

"I never called you nor implied you to be an invalid," her voice answered with irritating placidity. "Merely pointed out a sound point or two about your requiring help." The slightest creak of the chair reached me as she sat back. "I also voiced some very real and valid concerns about how you would continue your work. Raising your voice to me will not change the fact that you need to consider this."

"I have not raised my voice so much as an iota," I replied, my anger starting to seethe through my voice all the same, this entire situation deeply rankling me, "despite the fact that people insist on disregarding my wishes simply _because_ they perceive me to be helpless. And do not deny that is the case. Do you think me a fool? That I have not considered the situation? If my eyesight returns...there is little reason for worry...if it does not, then..." I frowned. "Then I will consider the future...and if I require help, I will ask for it."

"Your intent to remain self sufficient is admirable and manly in the extreme, Sherlock," she returned, her tone still determinedly level. "I may be concerned about you, but I do not pity you or think you witless. In fact, I cannot help but be proud of your determination not to let this affect your work. It eases my mind no end. But in your resolve to keep your behaviour just so, will you let it run rough shod over your aims? Namely the quick and efficient resolution of this case? I had not thought to see the day when pride would outweigh logic in Sherlock Holmes's consideration."

Before I could answer, the rustle of her dress filled the air as she rose to her feet and moved back in the direction of my room, leaving me with her thoughts. When she returned, it was away from me and towards the table, upon which I heard her set the tray she had previously left in my room. "Well, since I have come all this way, you won't object to taking breakfast with me?"

Her previous accusation rankled with me, and my brow was deeply furrowed when she returned, but my irritation was directed ever more inwards, at myself. For there was truth in her words -- that pride and indeed, fear were at the root of my behaviour. Being intent on maintaining my ways, I was well upon the road to altering them in a far more intrinsic way than the wound to my eyes ever could. And in her pointing this out to me, I deeply disliked the idea that I might have damaged my image in her eyes.

"Of course not," I assured her quietly. The smile in her voice was broader when she spoke once more, inviting me to join her at the table and once again leaving me to my own devices to make my way there. Though I knew her eyes were upon me the entire way.

As she had travelled up upon the first train and had not eaten, we shared the breakfast. No hardship for me as my appetite had been reduced due both to the situation and the morphine I had been given. It was a quiet breakfast as meals often are in the tentative aftermath of a disagreement. Finally as we both sipped our tea, I asked her as to whether the papers were reporting my being gravely wounded, which she confessed most were.

"John informed me you had asked the doctors not to disillusion the press of this idea. That you felt it would work to your advantage," she said, pressing me a little, and I could envision her quizzical expression. "Are you planning to set another trap?"

"Only in the sense of allowing him a modicum more of comfort than he thinks he has. Our master thief thinks I am gravely ill and out of the game. That may make him bolder yet and more prone to errors." I frowned and felt the touch of her hand upon my arm.

"You believe him to be a master and yet you say he has erred. What is it you are thinking?" she asked, causing me to smile a little at her perceptiveness.

"Up to this point every aspect of his planning has been meticulous, seamless…and yet…both the raid on the transport and this venture have been far more lax and rushed than usual." I turned my head in her direction. "One would think he would go to ground after the death of Halliwell, but instead, he continued on with a murder charge and me in his wake. That and the errors make me suspect it was as if he had to…as if there was something pushing him along."

"And why you feel he may yet risk more in your absence?" she added.

"Perhaps, yes," I agreed. "In addition, I learned several things from our encounter. One -- he is tall but not overly so, perhaps five feet ten or eleven. Two -- he is of a relatively strong build, but he wearied quickly as we struggled. Also, he is mildly pigeon toed, right-handed, and evidently not immune to the affliction of his nerves…nor to the desire to steady them."

"He drinks?"

"Not heavily," I answered her. "But yes, a faint whiff of spirits…gin to be precise. I caught it a moment before the gun went off. Unfortunately, he did not speak...and I did not see his face, due to the balaclava and hood he wore, nor even the colour of his eyes due to the poor light of the tunnel in which we fought." Sitting back, I tapped the table lightly. "I will need to have the police report files brought here to peruse their list of suspects again."

Her hand squeezed my forearm gently. "Would you like me to have a note sent to the Inspector?"

I paused a moment before answering, knowing full well it would be the answer to her accusation of emotion over reason. "Yes." I nodded. "Thank you. There is notepaper in my desk."

"Of course," she said softly, her smile not remotely hidden to me anymore and leaving me feeling as if my hearing was becoming more acute by the moment. Seating herself at my desk, she quickly wrote a note to Inspector Lestrade to bring the files to me as soon as convenient. If he could not come himself, she added, reading the note to me, she would be more than pleased to pick them up herself this evening.

"If you give it to Mrs. Hudson she will have one of the Irregulars take it to the Yard," I told her. "I would favour his coming more than your having to go, as it would both cause fewer questions and afford me the chance to question him about the henchmen we did capture and what they know of him. Though I have my doubts that it will be much."

While she folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, I turned my head to her once more. "Knowing you for the stubborn female you are, I presume your mind is still bent on remaining in London to aid me?"

"Only if that is what you wish, Sherlock," she answered me, eliciting a slight snort of amusement from me at her excessively deliberate mildness.

"Am I to believe that you will return home to St Albans this very moment if I ask it of you?"

"You may ask, of course," she said sweetly, rising to her feet.

"That is precisely what I thought." I sighed with resignation. "Very well...given your propensity for taking things into your _own_ hands when I deny you the opportunity to aid me, it would be far more prudent for me to keep you close by and under a modicum of control at least," I chaffed her lightly, taking a soupçon of vengeance. "Take a room at Brown's...you have some familiarity with Lestrade, which will be useful. You may stay and take care of the secretarial aspect of things if you wish."

"Of course I would be pleased to be useful and of some assistance," came her reply, and I was no more fooled by its demure tone than by the one before, knowing full well that as I spoke her eyes were most probably dancing with merriment.

"Then deliver that letter to Mrs. Hudson..." I sniffed. "And fetch some tea for us both, retrieve a note pad from somewhere, and see about my blackboard and some chalk. We have work to be getting on with."

* * *

The Inspector did indeed come himself with the files, but not that evening, nor the next morning either. Much to my vexation, more than twenty four hours had passed before he was to arrive at Baker Street with my information in tow. Miss Thurlow, who it had been agreed would serve secretarial hours, arriving at nine in the morning and finishing at six at night, was present and saw to my presentability before taking up her notebook and pencil and seating herself beside me prior to the Inspector's entrance. 

An entrance which in typical fashion was brusque. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. I trust you are..." He stopped suddenly in mid greeting as, I presumed, he had found himself unexpectedly face to face with Miss Thurlow.

One would have had to have been blind indeed not to notice that a seed of antipathy between the Inspector and Miss Thurlow had been sown the previous year. Their encounter and differing opinions over the manner in which the retrieval of the three kidnapped children in the Mary Becker case had been handled had created some definite friction. A friction that, even in my state, I could feel from the moment they came face to face with each other once more.

"Ah, my apologies, I did not realise you already had a visitor. Miss Thurlow," he greeted her. "A pleasure to see you once again. I had not thought to see you here, presuming your note to be merely a convenience of your being present here yesterday," he said to her, his tone stiff and sounding even somewhat irritated at her continued attendance, which had obviously interrupted his planned opening soliloquy to me.

"Good afternoon, Inspector," she responded smoothly.

"Please take a seat, Inspector." I let my hand sweep towards Watson's chair, the doctor having excused himself for rounds. "And be at your ease. You have not interrupted another visit. Miss Thurlow is not here on a social call."

"Indeed?" Lestrade answered as he sat.

"Yes...she is here to aid me."

"Ahh...of course, admirable...admirable," said he, relaxing somewhat in tone and hitting his stride as the subject of my _affliction_ hove into view. "It is only right that you have someone close to you to assist in this time of terrible trouble. It is a sad thing..." he said mournfully. "A sad thing indeed to see someone of your great independence of spirit reduced to this, Mr. Holmes. It fair makes my blood boil."

Beside me, where Miss Thurlow sat, I could hear the slightest irritated rustle of damask and was left with the singular image of silken hackles rising, my aide's dislike of our beaverish Inspector clearly and quickly coming to the fore.

"I would venture to disagree with you, Inspector," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Mr. Holmes is far from infirm. He merely enquired if I would assist him with secretarial duties temporarily." Another rustle preceded her steely final sentence. "And this is only a temporary setback, I assure you sir."

While naturally the loss of my sight was of immeasurable concern to me, my fears and disquiet having to be constantly abated by a focus on my work, I nonetheless felt immeasurable regret at not being able to see, but only surmise, the facial expressions upon my two companions as they regarded each other. To this day I see it as steel hard glare meets diamond gaze. A source of amusement that I was in sore need of at the time deprived of me.

"Of course...of course..." the Inspector finally replied after a hush of some length had settled between them. "A most loyal and estimable attitude, Miss Thurlow. One must keep an optimistic point of view, mustn't one?" I heard the opening of a briefcase. "Hence these files." He slid them out and handed them to Helen, who leaned forward beside me to take them. "Forgive my slight delay in getting them to you, but Scotland Yard, as you may know, has been in some disarray over the past few months, what with the move to the new premises on Victoria Embankment. Boxes are everywhere…things have had a tendency to get moved at the most awkward of moments…Lord knows how everything will make it safely to our new home." He coughed lightly. "I digress from my point, for as I said to the doctor himself the night before last, it is most cheering to hear that you have decided to keep your mind exercised, Mr. Holmes...very good indeed."

"I am gratified you think so, Inspector," I replied, endeavouring not to smile at another rustle of silk and linen beside me, his somewhat condescending air not well received by their owner. "I realise that you are busy, so we shall not keep you too long while we..._exercise our optimism_. I trust you will not mind if Miss Thurlow takes notes while I ask you what you learned from those confederates we took on the night of the burglary?"

"No, not at all, Miss Thurlow may try to take all the notes she likes," he answered with an easily discernable smile. "Though I fear it is a waste of her time."

"I assure you, Inspector," said my temporary secretary, a cool wisp to her voice, "that I am quite skilled at note taking. A side effect of attending some long winded meetings at the family company. I'm sure this is a bit more complex than international shipping contracts and law...but I think I can muddle through."

"You misunderstand me, Miss Thurlow," the Inspector replied superciliously. "You will waste your time because, quite frankly, there is little or nothing for you to take down." His voice addressed me once more. "You see, the two men we took outside the Moncrieff's house maintain that they never once saw the face of the man inside the house. They were hired as crows, door crackers, and to provide transport for escape, but not by him."

"A third party?" I sat forward a little.

"Yes...an older man, they said, by name of Bootle struck them as being down on his uppers," the Inspector answered. "We have people out making enquiries after him now. The lads in custody don't know where to find him...he finds them, they say."

"Where?" I demanded. "They must be contactable. A meeting spot."

"The Horse and Dragon near Seven Dials. Messages are left there with details for assembly," the Inspector informed me before he paused and inhaled warily. "I trust, Mr. Holmes, you have no plans to take on one of your foolhardy undercover actions in this condition? Or worse…" A secondary pause followed, during which his eyes must have glanced towards Miss Thurlow. "Allow _others_ to repeat recent, ridiculously ill thought out and dangerous actions on your behalf?"

The notebook beside me closed, and none too gently either.

"Do you have a description of the intermediary?" I asked relatively swiftly to curtail any female response, personally not reacting to Lestrade at all, for the man amused me far too much to allow any perturbance.

"It's in the files...I am sure Miss Thurlow can inform you of it," Lestrade replied stiffly, only confirming the idea in my head that a glaring match of sorts was going on beside me. "As you will see, it is not terribly illuminating. The fact that the man is older is really the only salient point about him, the rest is either average or conflicted beyond imagining.

"Mr. Holmes, I really do not mind you going over these notes in the slightest; however, I caution you on going any further than that. You are vulnerable in the extreme...and you cannot afford to put yourself or others in danger at the moment. As it is, Inspector Girard is highly aggrieved with you…even if he still believes you to be gravely ill. He was not at all impressed with not being informed of your alternate plan. So much so that word about the Yard is he punched his hand into the wall of his office when he discovered the thief had been within your grasp and escaped." Lestrade's voice took on an uncomfortable tone, indicating that he himself had been at the receiving end of at least a taste of the Inspector's evidently incandescent rancour.

"He feels had this been better planned and had there been more men there, this might never have happened," he sniffed. "And I have a tendency to agree. And so I must insist to you that the Metropolitan police force has no further time to waste on incidents that could be avoided."

"You may rest assured, Inspector," I answered with a smile, "that we will not be calling upon you to rescue us from anything. I would not wish any more damage to the fine plasterwork at Scotland Yard...especially not as it becomes the New Scotland Yard."

"Yes…well…I am glad to hear it," he harrumphed, the height from which his voice came indicating that he had stood. "Well, everything you require is there...including the tin types and artist renderings of our various suspects you requested previously. I had best be on my way. I have much to do and my investigations cannot cease for long." A note of enjoyment slipped into his tone despite his attempt at affecting weariness.

"The media have been dogging my every move, my name is all over the papers...the public have been quite excited by all this..." He sighed. "I'm sure you know how difficult it is to deal with such celebrity, Mr. Holmes. I hope someday you will again. Rest well, sir...and rest assured that I am on the job!" he announced.

Whereupon wishing us both a good evening, he swept from the room, leaving the sound of retreating footsteps and that of a woman's indelicately derisive snort that quickly, and with some embarrassment, reassembled itself into a cough.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: Welcome back and we are so sorry we have left it this long between updates! But as with mystery arcs, it is better to write the entire thing out first and make sure all the t's are crossed and the i's are dotted. We hope you enjoy it...and the new perspective. I would just like to say a huge thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed or even taken the time to drop us a line. Your thoughts are deeply appreciated. -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**


	6. Blind Justice Part Two

**_Chapter Six: Blind Justice - Part Two_**

_London, 2nd June, 1890_

Holmes attended carefully as Helen, seated beside him on the couch in 221b Baker Street, read to him from the latest file taken from those stacked upon the table before them, the police reports of the Yard's suspects dry but thorough. If anything, though, he seemed to listen even more vigilantly when she was done with the particulars of each man in question, his blind and covered eyes turning in her direction with his head cocked slightly to one side.

For once done with the 'dry filling' of the report as he called it, if he had not dismissed the man out of hand as incapable of being their thief, then Helen, as per his explicit instructions and to the best of her ability, described in detail every last aspect of the face and head in front of her, be it photograph or artist's rendering, until he was satisfied.

This she did happily for him though with great curiosity and wondering all the while as to the reason for this instruction. Given her inquisitive nature, it was with admirable restraint that she managed to stave off the inevitable question that bubbled away while she read.

"Sherlock," she finally addressed him after he had once again dismissed another possible suspect when they were but half way through his details. "Why precisely does it matter what the shape of their heads is? I understand you are trying to form a portrait of the individual in your mind...but to dismiss them before you hear their entire background?"

Raising his head from where it rested upon his chest and removing himself from his contemplation, he turned his freshly bandaged face once more in her direction, Watson having treated and dressed the burns beneath before his departure.

"I have already read their files and for the most part, committed their backgrounds to memory," he replied, a small smile on his face at her finally breaking her silence. "But police records are notoriously one dimensional, and while these files tell me of their criminal activities, what they have either been suspected of or caught in the act of doing, it does not tell me of their personalities or capabilities. Our man is more than just the sum of a report and far more than he appears to be. I need to find some sense of that.

"It is believed by some that oft times one can learn what one needs to know about another from outward characteristics. The slope of the brow, curve of the cranium…the topology of the skull itself if given the chance to examine it," he said. "In a similar fashion, there is a school of thought that says one can tell as much from facial characteristics and quirks as an entire diary full of self-confession. More perhaps...as a skilled reader can tell not only what they may or may not have done, but what they might be capable of. While it is merely an experiment, I admit, these sciences -- phrenology and physiognomy -- may well be able to point me in directions mere police forms cannot."

"And a person's skull can truly tell you this?" she enquired, her tone unsure. "I understand the mannerisms, of course. But to know a person simply from the way their heads are constructed?" She shook her head and closed the file, placing it on the pile of those done. "I believe I have heard mention of phrenology...but I've not heard anything about it."

"Phrenology is the physiological hypothesis advocated by the German physician Franz Gall that mental faculties and traits of character are shown upon the surface of the skull." He smiled a little as he slipped into his lecture mode. "The geography of the mind if you will. Physiognomy is an older concept that has developed from an absolute in the middle ages into a science of sorts...in which rough statistical correlations between physical features and character traits are established. Namely that our physical make up and appearance are affected by our character traits, and vice versa. "

"They are not absolutes, as I say," he added, his head turning to the window as he noted the selling cry of the newspaper boy at the end of the street was louder and more vivid than usual. "But the man we are looking for is apparently able to move in both high society...and the poorest of gin houses, with absolute equanimity. I am searching for some clue to his appearance that might let me see who amongst these men might be possible of such ease of transposition. Something in his face or cranial structure that might tell me who he is." He turned his attention back to her. "Every face tells a story, they say. And here, they say, each differing part of your head and eyes is a paragraph, a line, an exclamation point, or period...each one telling you a little more about yourself."

Her hand reached up and touched her face almost in reflex as he said that, and then she hastily lowered it, a touch embarrassed at the gesture and her subsequent curious enquiry coming forth just a little hurried as a result. "And you can...tell a man's story with this science, Sherlock?"

He inhaled a little as he pondered this, taking note as he did so of the lingering smell of cabbage from last night's meal, the scent of boot black on his shoes that Mrs. Hudson had polished for him, and, unsurprisingly given her proximity, Helen's subtle perfume. "I believe it _might_ aid in the telling of his propensities...in what they might excel at and what they have a greater tendency towards," he said finally.

"Fascinating," she replied, her tone reflecting that particular sentiment, while she wondered inwardly what her face might tell.

"Indeed," said he in full agreement as he moved to point to a spot on the side of his head, only to find the swathe of bandages blocking his aim. Disgruntled at his lesson being impeded, he merely moved his hand from his own head towards hers. "Lean your head forward. It will be easier for me to indicate on you than on myself, he instructed, his hand paused in mid-air, waiting for her, and his studious expression making it clear there was no hint of any impropriety in his intended thought or action.

With a most interested countenance of her own, she laid the file upon her lap back with its fellows on the small table next to them and moved a little closer to him on the couch. Taking his searching hand, she guided it to her head, the long braided loop around her chignon brushing his fingers in the process and informing him of her hairstyle that day.

"Here..." He touched the back of her head with two fingers, pressing against her scalp softly. "There..." He indicated the central spot two-thirds of the way up her cranium. "Where I'm pressing, that is the area assigned to concentrativeness...or intelligence if you will. Yours has an impressive width..." He inclined his head a little in compliment as he assessed it. "For a woman."

"Of course," she returned, amusement lacing her voice.

His fingers moved to either side of the spot upon Helen's head he had touched initially, and he chuckled to himself, completely unconcerned by how the sight of a man brushing his fingers through a woman's hair in this manner might seem to some improper or imprudent. Having little time as he did for those societal conventions that impeded his work or his ability to discern information or, as in this case, impart it to others, the only thing that occurred to him beyond that point was how much his heightened senses made the touch of her hair an almost visual experience.

"A penny for your thoughts?" she asked him, curious as to the source of his amusement.

"These areas..." he pointed out, touching either side of that spot once more, "both of which are extremely well developed on you…are assigned to adhesiveness." His smile grew. "Persistence. _Stubbornness_, if you will."

"Ah..." she breathed, her head dipping a little under his touch as she sighed softly, her own amusement joining his. "I see."

"It is quite interesting what touches directly upon intellect in terms of phrenology. Persistence on either side..." He touched those spots once more gently. "And then above...what phrenologists call inhabitiveness." The pads of his fingers slipped over her head to the curve above the plane he had first alighted on. "Which is also a form of persistence, although it deals with willingness to stay where one is -- love of home and country -- a counterpoint to wanderlust if you will," he added, finding some of the tenseness that had informed his consciousness those past few days easing a little as the lesson continued. "It is a good balance to have, I believe," he pronounced. "Showing neither flightiness nor stagnation...good for the intellect."

Though he would never admit it outwardly at that point, he had found the past few days without sight worrisome and highly disconcerting. Quite apart from the concern for his future and the horror and injury to his pride of being reliant on others for an extended period of time, dwelling in darkness both night and day had left him feeling isolated in a way that even a man such as he, who never cared too much for company, found deeply unsettling.

In the tranquillity of this impromptu tutorial, Helen's presence, her connection to him through touch, was a decided comfort, given the uncertainty and separation he was experiencing.

"And of course...intellect is nothing without persistence, for which you are well equipped." He smiled again and let his fingers travel down her cranium to explain the lower sections.

Helen endeavoured diligently to lie to herself -- to tell herself that the feel of his fingers caressing her scientifically was not remotely...pleasurable. While in fact, the electric tingles had been buzzing and shooting through her as soon as he had touched her. And though his words had her paying somewhat rapt attention, for the subject _was_ fascinating, it was hard for her to control or keep her mind on the topic...and not let her thoughts slip to the pure enjoyment of his touch.

As he explained further sections of her skull to her and what they might mean, Holmes could not help but notice how his senses trained ever further upon her, and how engrossing it was to catalogue the myriad little things that allowed him to build up a picture of her in his mind. Something in the back of that mind warned him as to the dangerous path this need for connection was taking him, but though he might deny it vehemently, he _was_ unbalanced, the loss of his sight leaving him emotionally vulnerable…and open to the power of his senses.

The need, for once, outweighed the logic.

"This…" he said quietly, ever more engrossed in the subject of his study as his fingers meticulously circled an oval spot above the nape of her neck, "this spot deals with philoprogenitiveness. It is quite developed here. It indicates fertility and love of children. And this…" His touch delved under the loop of braided hair at the nape of her neck, brushing the base of her skull. "This is amativeness."

Her eyebrows shot up and she inhaled slowly, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment at the topics of fertility and, most latterly, love. "I see..." Her voice was hesitant, her breath quickening a little and her mind unable to light upon a response that did not seem foolish or indecorous. She knew she should pull away now, that already this was having an effect upon her that she should not allow to continue. But…if she did so, she would seem emotional and unscientific for allowing such things to affect her. "I had no idea my skull could tell you...well, that kind of information," she replied her voice quieter. "Please...continue. This is really quite fascinating."

He could not help but note how her breathing had quickened and how the fragrance she wore seemed to increase in strength as she did so, to the point where he found it quite the heady bouquet indeed. For the first time, her proximity to him started to become apparent.

Hesitating a moment more, a flicker of an idea to end this blinked within him also. But with this heightened need for connection and having let himself succumb so far to both the inordinate pull of touch and scent, and with her strawberry jam fragranced breath filling his darkened world, the idea of stopping seemed at that moment quite out of the question -- his mind subservient to his sentiment. And so he nodded, his hand moving up over the central part of her skull slowly. "Here..." he touched the very top of the back of her head, "is your self esteem." His lip curled a little as he attempted to ignore the growing heat within him. "Mine, I believe, is quite well developed."

Her smile grew again at that, his ego well known to her and others he was close to. "Very healthy," she agreed.

"This..." his fingers slowly wandered over the curve of her head, "is firmness...and this, " he brushed the very crown of her, his words soft and lending an odd weight and profoundness to what followed, "veneration. Worship," he expounded. His voice was quiet and deep as his bandaged eyes turned directly to her for the first time, as though he were trying to peer his way into the darkness, his senses feeling her in front of him. "Respect...reverence." His so far unused hand silently rose up to touch her cheek.

"Is mine...all right?" she asked softly, her breath catching as his fingers brushed her skin.

"I would say...yes..." he murmured, his fingers brushing her silken hair absently as he spoke. "A little reduced perhaps, indicating a modicum of disrespect at times...for authority..." Her breath tickled his wrist where he touched her cheek. "And for convention."

His words echoed in his head. Yet he hardly needed to hear them to know the conventions they were flouting as of this moment, all under the now flimsy excuse of learning. But her skin in the darkness was wondrously soft and smooth, and her breath not only warmed him but made him feel alive and connected with the world once more.

Her cheek leaned into his hand, her heartbeat rapid and loud in her ears and yet, his words carried over it easily. Her eyes shifted to meet his but on finding just bandages, dipped to take in what she could of his face -- the faint stubble on his chin, the way his lips parted just a little and his nostrils flared with each inhale...it was intoxicating.

"Benevolence..." His hand on her head moved down slowly as his thumb stroked her cheek in time with his words. "Comparison...eventuality, " he listed as his fingers slipped to her forehead, his voice deepening. Feeling her tense and quiver softly beneath his touch, and galvanised by the effect on them both...and by how intense everything felt to him, he allowed his fingertips to slip down the centre of her brow gently. "Individuality..." he rumbled before the pads of his fingers slowly moved over her eyes, her eyelashes tickling him as her eyelids fluttered shut and sending ripples through him that were quite, to his mind, absurdly strong.

His hand slipped to cup her other cheek, his imagination picturing her owlish eyes gazing up at him, and amidst the sensation of feeling disembodied and removed, only this link to her became real. His thumbs brushing down her nose, he envisioned her in his mind's eye...before his fingers touched her lips and felt her breath on them, the heat sparking a memory of a time before and to wonder…

And then he moved, leaning forward slowly, his nose brushing and slipping down hers...his heart thudding against his ribcage as he inhaled her breath with his own...

The sudden rattle of the tea tray outside the door echoed through the couple like an alarm, dragging them back from the precipice over which they hung. "Would anyone care for a spot of tea?" Mrs. Hudson's voice intruded almost in time with her opening of the door.

Holmes sat back swiftly, his hands in his lap as his head turned in the direction of the door. "Yes," he said quickly, disguising the swiftness of his breath with a rapid response. "I believe we have earned a break. And Miss Thurlow is no doubt tired of hearing me talk."

Helen's eyes immediately dropped to her lap as she struggled to control her breathing and clear the fuzz from her mind. Pushing a strand of hair from her face, she rose quickly to her feet and hurried over to where the landlady was backing into the room as she held the large tray. "Can I aid you with that, Mrs. Hudson?" she enquired.

Holmes listened to the two women fuss over who should do what before he turned his attention away, frowning at his actions...and more...at the strong and sincere ripple of regret that was running through him. Not because of his actions, but because he had not been allowed to complete them.

Reaching out, he found and grasped the files of descriptions and tapped them loudly. "Helen," he said firmly, "I believe there is nothing more to learn from these. Once tea is done and we finish these few remaining reports, we shall wait for Watson's return and focus ourselves to another line of enquiry. One which I hope will serve us better. It is time, I feel, that I introduce you to the cold, _clinical _art of code breaking."

* * *

_Sussex, 1911_

The day following Inspector Lestrade's visit with the files was spent in tandem with Miss Thurlow and Watson going through the reports of those henchmen taken at the Moncrieff's home two nights previous. Their contact, a _Mr. Bootle_ was, unfortunately, precisely as the Inspector had said he was. Nothing about him, from the artist's rendering to the detailed statement notes, made the man stand out, save the white hair of his age. Which given the details that followed could even have been premature, for his age had been estimated anywhere between forty and seventy by those he had solicited.

One said he was short and stooped, the other tall. Robust in one description, frail in another. It was as if the two captured men, who had never worked together before that night, had met a similar but entirely different man. Which was certainly not outside the realm of possibility. I, however, had a different probability in mind.

Furnishing Watson with a supply of ten shilling notes from my wallet, I asked the doctor to remove himself to the Seven Dials to investigate the Horse & Dragon and its environs to seek what more of this Mr. Bootle he could find. In the meantime, my special 'secretary' and I turned to the files of suspects Scotland Yard had compiled.

I had, of course, been through them thoroughly before ever laying the trap at the Moncrieff's. But in the aftermath of my encounter with our thief, I hoped that their descriptions might jog a memory, something that might have gone unnoticed in my struggle with him.

In addition, the thief's knowledge of the passageway in that house gave me insight into his singular ability to be able to garner detail from, and no doubt move about in, high circles as well as low. A chameleonic quality certainly, and one that led me to strongly suspect that our Mr. Bootle and our thief were, white hair not withstanding, one and the same. After all…what better way to throw the police off the scent than to provide one man, but two differing aspects?

I was left, therefore, with the impression of a man with intellect, drive, and quite the adaptive and creative ability. And so in seating ourselves upon the couch with the files laid open before us to sift through, I decided to apply a little of a technique I had been studying at that time, Phrenology. A technique I have long since discarded as far too flawed to be of use, but which at the time seemed worthy of exploration. Sitting back, I asked Miss Thurlow, who was seated beside me, to not only read the record placed upon the page but also to describe, to the best of her ability and in as much detail as she could, their facial features and cranial aspects as rendered in the photographs and police artist's drawings.

However, as I say, the technique is flawed and little of note came from it, and so we broke a short time later to take up an older and what I hoped would be a more fruitful line of enquiry -- the advertisements I had previously used to discover the secret auction method used by our thief and the art of code breaking by which I discerned it.

While I embarked upon the task of instructing Miss Thurlow in the rudiments of ciphers, Watson proved himself to be an excellent set of eyes and ears upon the streets of London. The thoroughness of his report upon the Horse & Dragon and its surrounds was evidence indeed that his time with me had taught him much about the importance of detail and the observation of it.

Sadly however, it occurred to me that while he was in my company I should have taught him a little more about the art of blending into such surrounds. For the denizens of the Dial's public house were in every way as low of character and tight of lip as I imagined they would be. Naturally, the moment a man as eminent of character and rectitude entered their environs, those lips became as secure as the lock upon Mrs. Hudson's biscuit cabinet.

No one, unsurprisingly, had so much as heard of this Mr. Bootle, never mind clapped eyes upon him…even for the sum of a guinea. Amongst men and women who would normally snap your hand off at the wrist for a fifth of that sum, such refusal meant that whoever this man was, he or those he worked with packed considerable _clout_, as they say.

Watson's report was exceedingly thorough, and from the reactions he described, it became evident that while no one in the place had heard of Bootle, they all knew him right enough. And nor was he the only one in search of information about the man. For as soon as he had quaffed his watered down ale and left the stinking confines of the

Dial's inn, he was accosted by two men outside a second pub on the corner of the junction near The Horse & Dragon.

The men were, it was revealed, undercover police officers, who wished to know his reasons for seeking this Mr. Bootle. Once he identified himself to them, they took him off the street into the smaller public house by name of The Rose.

While there, they explained to him that the search was in full swing, that great exception had been taken to the injury to me by a good many officers, and that The Rose was a convenient point indeed for the observation of The Horse & Dragon, as a great many off duty officers frequented it. All this, he was told he should report to me so that I might rest easy in my sick bed. For they were fully convinced, Lestrade having been as good as his word, that I was ill indeed and commiserated heartily with him upon my state.

I must admit to toying with the idea of transforming Watson into a denizen of the Dials or Whitechapel…but as artistic as his bent is in terms of literature, I could not see him sufficiently mastering all that he would need to pass safely there without discovery, and I was loathe to send my friend out without that expertise.

I had Watson once again go through the descriptions we had on the vague chance he might have seen one of them upon his tour of duty. On that coming to naught, he returned them the following day to Lestrade and received in return the latest police report on the investigation, which unsurprisingly showed them to be at as much of an impasse as we were ourselves.

Even the doctor's encounter with Chief Inspector Girard, nursing his bandaged hand from his encounter with the wall of his office, led to nothing of any use whatsoever. Girard, after having enquired upon my health, was loathe to admit it, said Watson, but without Bootle, the link to the man behind all this was lost to us. All the Yard could do was prosecute the two hired men as accomplices to attempted theft, as both denied involvement on the British Museum raid and death, and both had solid alibis to back them.

In order to find our man, Watson said on returning to Baker Street, Girard felt we had to find someone further up the chain of information. Though precisely how to do that he was at a loss, and despite his annoyance at my leaving him out of the loop regarding the trap at Moncrieff's estate, he conveyed his wishes to my friend that I might once again be involved upon the case. Which, of course, unbeknownst to him, I was…and in doing so, attempting to find just such a source of high information as he might wish.

Having discovered over a month and a half ago in the advertisement pages of _The Evening Standard_ the coded message for the Auction of the Raphael painting stolen from Lord Bolton, I had kept a regular eye upon the papers ever since in an effort to discern further messages. A task which caused much exasperation in my landlady, who was forever picking up the discarded journals in which I had found nothing.

I had been too late in my discovery of the original code, and the examination of the premises of the supposed tailor shop in Camden, which in fact was nothing but an abandoned room, had resulted in little of note. But that auction had taken place in January, and there were now two items -- the Ebony Snake and the Abydos Sceptre at large. I had scoured the papers thoroughly every day up until my accident with the pistol and was convinced that I had missed nothing and that there had been no further auctions by this method to this point. This was most likely due to the death of Jack Halliwell and the reluctance of some buyers to take a chance on goods associated with a murder.

I was also convinced, however, that my much reported accident would change that, and that our man, and his buyers, would take full advantage of my being laid low to thumb their collective noses at all other investigations and invite his well-heeled cohorts to purchase his ill gotten gains.

Had I been sighted, it would have only taken me a day at the most to go through all of the major metropolitan and national newspapers advertisement pages for those days I had been rendered out of commission. But as it was, I had little choice but to rely on another's eyes, intelligence, and powers of discernment.

With Watson fielding questions from the press, going back and forth between the police and others to receive reports and deliver messages as well as marshalling the Irregulars to be more eyes and ears for us on the street, and attempting to keep his own practice afloat, I could not press him into further service. And so it was to Miss Thurlow that I turned.

Women, I have noted, do have a tremendous capacity for observation. Their brains, not so focused as a man's, seem capable of taking in several things at once, which of course lends to their flightiness. Miss Thurlow had also long ago impressed me as being quick of wit and learning for a member of her sex, and she did not disappoint me.

The original code had been a simple one, and while I did not expect to see the exact same format again, neither did I expect to find anything much more sophisticated, and so I taught her a fundamental routine with which to run through each advertisement. Something she would do with the use of a blackboard to allow her to outwardly visualise what I normally did within my head.

I spent a full day in explaining to her the basics of steganography, or the science of sending concealed messages, and once I felt she was sufficiently grounded in the process, we began. And over the next two days, we worked steadily through the newspapers that had built up in number while I had been malingering.

Each day that passed saw us work longer and longer hours, my intent on finding a new thread -- a hook that we could bait to catch our thief -- growing more and more determined, until finally the respectable hours I had placed upon Miss Thurlow had dissipated entirely. Mrs. Hudson, as was only proper I suppose, raised something of a fuss that first night when the clock had struck nine o'clock and the single young lady was still remaining in this bachelor's rooms.

But our attention was given only to the work we had undertaken, and knowing my ways as she did and undoubtedly humouring me due to my condition, my landlady resorted to chaperoning us with occasional visits and numerous pots of tea or coffee as our hours grew later and later. On the third evening, the clock struck once, indicating to me the half hour and that it was eleven thirty, and still we worked on, for every day brought a new batch of papers to keep our task ongoing.

"Very well, Helen," said I from the confines of my chair. "Let us try the next column of _The Times_." My hand gestured towards the blackboard that stood beyond the table in the room.

My energy and brightness was undiminished despite the late hour and the fact that we had been working virtually all day, since nine o'clock that morning to be precise, and only stopping briefly for lunch at one, tea at four, and a light supper at eight. The pile of papers we had gone through was considerable that evening, and despite Miss Thurlow's occasional efforts to tidy up, I could tell by the rustle and crackle of paper whenever someone moved that much of it now lined a great deal of the furniture and floor.

It was that rustling I heard as my assistant picked up the latest in the stack and headed over to the blackboard with a weary exhale. I admit at this juncture that I did indeed utilise Miss Thurlow's presence to the full, and received admonishments from both Mrs. Hudson and Watson for doing so. But to Miss Thurlow's credit, she voiced neither complaint nor desire to leave and instead remained by my side, indulging my driven nature. Therefore, I had no reason to believe she wished to leave, and why should she? There is little as thrilling as the unravelling of a puzzle.

On reaching the blackboard, she addressed me as she folded out the newspaper to begin. "Are there any particular ones you wish me to concentrate on, Sherlock?"

"No..." I said as lightly as if the hour was early. "Let us begin in order and work our way down. We need to be vigilant and cover them all with equal scrutiny." Turning a little more in her direction, I resettled myself for comfort, intending to continue my own ongoing ruminations while she worked at the board, before I enquired, "What is the area under advertisement in this column?"

"Art and Photography," she replied after a moment. "There is a man taking photographic portraits of various sizes...and a gallery wishing to buy daguerreotypes and art of all types…restoration work and purchasing." Following that, she began, as was our rote, to read the two articles as clearly and concisely as she could.

_**DAGUERREOTYPE OR PHOTOGRAPHIC PORTRAITS**_

_  
PORTRAITS by Mr. CLAUDET'S INSTANTANEOUS PROCESS under the Patronage of her Majesty, are taken daily at the ADELAIDE GALLERY, STRAND. The Sitting generally occupies less than One Second, by which faithful and pleasing Likenesses are obtained, with backgrounds, the patented invention of Mr. Claudet, representing Landscapes, the Interior of a Library, &c. &c.  
Price of a Single Portrait, usual size, One Guinea. Portraits and Groups are also taken on Plates of an enlarged size, and for Lockets or Broaches as small as may be required._

**_MAPLETHORPE'S GALLERY, CAMDEN_**

_Sell Your valuables and Art; early style Daguerreotypes sought for as much as Five guineas. Eradicate your Debts! Accepted articles will be exchanged for Cash in hand._

_Restore your Artworks. Restoration Experts from all over the kingdom are in our employ, place your valuables in the safekeeping of our outstanding Handlers._

_Trading connections have been established with many notable galleries throughout the World. Old masters; Latest sensations; be assured whether your fine taste runs to the New or Old, or merely to the enhancement of your décor, we shall seek the perfect Item for your collection. Titian, Constable, Uccello, Altdorfer, whatever your desires we shall undertake them upon your behalf._

_**OPEN WEEKDAYS TILL 6, WEEKENDS TILL 4.**_

I considered them, finding the range of the artists cited in the latter advertisement impressive -- medieval till modern being quite the range. After a moment, I nodded. "Very well, Helen...let us begin as before with the substitution cipher regimen, with the most common letter as usual being 'e,' and working through them sentence by sentence. Failing that providing us with anything, we shall try a simple transposition cipher." Sitting back, I returned to my private contemplation.

There was a momentary pause of a length that gave _me_ a pause. On the verge of asking whether she might be in need of a rest or perhaps wished to end our work for the evening, I found my question was pre-empted by the rustle of her skirts and the sound of chalk meeting the blackboard.

As she had done over the previous two days, Miss Thurlow took the first of these advertisements and worked through the schedule she had perfected via instruction and practice. However, neither varying the letters and words in diverse ways in the substitution ciphers nor moving them around and reworking their order or line up in transposition provided anything but another mess of undecipherable language…as well as leaving my assistant's head, I was informed subsequent to the case, feeling as if it were packed with cotton wool.

My own irritation, naturally, grew as nothing new was produced. "Very well, Helen..." I said with a sigh, "it is unlikely, but try the simple visual steganographic technique I gave you to begin with. Seek out any unusual patterns in the print you might see." The words came as the clock struck midnight, and as the last of the chimes faded, footsteps were once more heard upon the stairs. A few ticks of the second hand of the clock later, Mrs. Hudson entered the room with a huff and, I have no doubt, a frown at the pair of us, her tea tray rattling, and from the smell, filled with fresh toast and muffins.

"Mr. Holmes!" the elder woman berated me lightly as she carried her load to the table, the sound of the silver coffeepot and milk jug clinking evident to me as she moved. "Have you any idea what time it is?"

"Midnight precisely," I replied with friendly composure.

"Midnight!" she agreed in exceptionally vehement tones. "And _still_ here you sit, working! Which is quite bad enough when taken on its own merits, but worse still when you keep poor Miss Thurlow not only here...which is quite scandalous enough should it be known...but still upon her feet and scratching at this infernal blackboard of yours!"

A wise man who dwells under a roof with a woman of any age learns when to pick his 'battles,' and as I sat forward and rose to make my way across to the table, I evinced an air of a man who knew better than to argue on this subject...or at least, argue too much. "Very well, Mrs. Hudson...let us just finish these two upon the 'hellish' thing and I shall free Miss Thurlow from my dominion."

From over beside the blackboard, where chalk moving across slate still sounded, my assistant came to my aid. "It's all right, Mrs. Hudson. I am well really. Or at least I will be after a cup of the delicious smelling coffee."

"See, Mrs. Hudson?" I proclaimed with a slight smile upon my face as my hands fell upon a chair. "All that is required is some refreshment."

Mrs. Hudson's huff was a good deal louder and more disbelieving than the first. "All that is required is for Miss Thurlow to be on her way to the comfort of her bed in her hotel and you to be resting in yours, Mr. Holmes!" she pronounced.

Our light sparring continued for a few moments more, and just as Mrs. Hudson was regrouping with familiar ammunition of my recovery and my extra need for rest, my ears picked up the sound of a woman's quiet murmuring.

"That's odd..." said Miss Thurlow in low tones, "the k in kingdom is lowercased..." Before I even thought to respond, Mrs. Hudson came to the end of her latest point and demanded a reply from me. I am glad to say that as I turned from politeness to reply to her, my assistant did not attribute the irreverent blunder to a simple error of the newstype, remembering instead what it was I had been repeating ad nauseum over the past few days -- what seems to be nothing may, in fact, be everything.

There had been a great number of nothings that had proven to be just that by this stage, and it must have been tempting in the extreme for her to consider that it might be so again and simply to move on, but to her great credit she momentarily halted her work upon the first advertisement and concentrated her efforts upon the second.

The chalk moved once more upon the blackboard, this time eschewing the formal schedule we had worked on to begin upon the latter, her instincts, as I had asked of her, being brought to bear. And in doing so, she began to write out the first letter in each of the capitalised words in the body of the message.

S...Y...A...D...F...E...D...A...C...R...A...R...E...H...T...W...O...L...N...O...I...T...C...U...A.

It was of course to her eyes nothing as she stared at her final result. Gibberish. Rubbish...once again. I heard nothing save a heavy sigh and the rustle of skirts that indicated her turning in frustration from the board towards us and the welcome refreshment upon the table.

A clink of a teacup and spoon came from the vicinity of the tray as I finished my assurances to my landlady that I would retire when I felt the need to do so, and then I heard a gasp of "Heaven's name...of course!"

"Helen?" My head turned immediately in inquiry.

A spoon dropped to the table with a clatter followed by the more delicate disposal of the china, and in a rush of skirts, the soft sound of the blackboard being cleaned preceded the crunch of newspaper and the chalk moving frantically across the slate once more.

Needless to say, I found all this action without response to my query a little aggravating and could only frown as I cocked my head at the rushed sounds emanating from beyond the table. "Helen..._what_ is it?" I demanded even as the following letters were being spelt out unbeknownst to me on the board.

A...U...C...T...I...O...N...L...O...W...T...H...E...R...A...R...C...A...D...E...F...D...A...Y...S

"The code!" she replied, her voice tinged with excitement. "No wonder it looked like utter nonsense. It would unless you applied the last element." She turned to my mystified self and my landlady. "He's taken a page right from Leonardo, Sherlock! Da Vinci, you will naturally recall, used to write all his journals in such a way...they look like nonsense unless you apply a..."

"Reflection!" I finished in a delighted cry as I began to scramble my way blindly around the table in haste.

"Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson cried out in alarm at my carelessness of movement. "Do be careful!"

"Bother that!" I reached out for Helen, searching for her hand and concerned only with what she had discovered. "Read it to me!"

Taking my hand, she led me before the board. "AUCTION, LOWTHER ARCADE F DAYS," she read and then queried, "F days? Four days? Five days?"

"What does it stand for in the advertisement?" I asked her, my hand raising hers to pat it in appreciation, encouragement, and no little animation.

"Five," she answered upon looking through the paper once more. "Though the article refers to five guineas."

I shook my head. "I would say the chances are excellent that the meaning is the same in code as in the paper. As long as five days would be required merely to have word of the auction to infiltrate to all interested parties...and then for bids to come in from various parts."

I turned my head to her. "But Lowther Arcade is a large place. We cannot go blindly...if you'll pardon the expression...in there without knowing precisely where the drop off point for the bids are. If we or the police charge in there without any indication of where we are going, we will lose the element of surprise and any chance of catching a fish in this net. Is there anything else that might give us a clue as to location? Any other numbers in the advertisement?"

Her voice now more alert than I had heard it in hours, she read through the advertisement again. "Only that they are open on weekdays till six and weekends till four."

"Six and four...hardly two drop off points…it would be too confusing and twice as observable for unusual activity. Sixty-four?" I hedged. "Or perhaps...given your reflective discovery...the number of the site might be forty-six?

"No matter..." I answered myself a moment later with a broad smile. "No matter at all! It can be easily discerned by Watson and on his informing them of the correct location…by the police. Mrs. Hudson!" I turned a little in her general direction. "First thing in the morning, would you be so good as to fetch the doctor from his surgery? I know he starts at seven...but we have little time to lose. He must go to Lowther Arcade and find out what is located at both sixty-four and forty-six in that place."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," she agreed hastily. "But now...pleased as I am that you have made your discovery, whatever it is, I must insist both you and Miss Thurlow rest and eat...and that Miss Thurlow be released to get some sleep." She moved towards the door. "Well earned, I am sure you will agree."

The door clicked behind her as she went to fetch a cab to stand ready for my assistant, and I nodded a little at the sound.

"Well earned, indeed," I agreed sincerely. "Excellent work, Helen. A fine, fine, application of concentration, reasoning, and observation leading to a most important deduction indeed. You have learned quickly and very well."

"Thank you, Sherlock. I'm simply pleased I was able to help," she answered demurely, though I could tell her smile was wide at my words, her voice mirthful at her own work and my praise. "I am sure though you would have reached the same conclusion much more rapidly than I."

"Undoubtedly." I smiled before raising her hand and kissing her chalk dusted knuckles lightly. "But I'd hazard to say...not by much."

A gentle squeeze of my fingers was her response before I straightened.

"And now, my dear," I pronounced, filling the temporary silence as I gestured towards the table, an eagerness to my smile that I assure you would've been reflected in my eyes had they been visible. "We refresh ourselves and plot how best to cast our new net!"

* * *

"Well?" said I, looking up through my bandages as I heard Watson enter the room upon his return from the police the next day. 

"It is all in hand, Holmes, all in hand!" came his pleased tone. "Inspector Lestrade was only too eager to be off once I had explained the situation. If he brings in a man before Girard gets wind of it, then he will be quite the man about the Yard himself! He has a full day for it as Girard will be with the Home Office for most of the day before returning home directly, his wife being quite ill with consumption, I believe. Lestrade has a decided window of opportunity for fame and glory, and knows it." He chuckled, the creak of the couch opposite me indicating my friend's seating himself beside my 'secretary.' "And number forty-six was indeed our mark! Unlike Camden which contains no such gallery, forty-six Lowther Arcade is marked Maplethorpe Gallery. But on passing it by two or three times…in the most casual manner, of course…"

"Of course." I inclined my head with a slight smile at the broad one in his voice.

"I perceived the sign to be freshly painted and only newly hung, the brass nails which affixed it above the shop frontage as shiny as you like. Not a light was on within and the doors were firmly closed and barred. Hardly good business!" The doctor almost chuckled. "The only egress to the place…" he finished with aplomb as he sat back, "is one letterbox -- perfect for the posting of letters…or silent auction bids posing as such."

"Excellent, Watson, excellent," I commended him before musing, "I don't suppose Lestrade, however, will have the patience to remain in hiding and see if he can grab the grand prize of our man himself, or his errand boy, when he comes to collect the bids."

"Do you think I should have told him to do so?" asked Watson a little tentatively.

"No…" I shook my head. "No…I fear our man may be too smart for our Inspector and perhaps too wary to appear in person after recent events, despite his rampant self-importance."

"Self-importance, Sherlock?" asked Miss Thurlow. "What makes you say that?"

"I would have thought that obvious by now. While you have been working away upon our code breaking, I have been giving a lot of thought to the make up of our perpetrator. This one area, his choice of high profile targets, his brazen use of the major Metropolitan papers to advertise his plunder, waving his achievements right under society's nose -- it is as if he is daring us to discover him…acknowledge him."

"You feel he wishes to be caught?" Watson enquired in surprise, garnering a smile from me.

"No, Watson, only to be recognized…accredited…" I stood and made my way slowly to a chair by the table. "This is a man who wishes to make a name for himself and for others to see the depths of his talents," I explained as I sat down. "And on the subject of being seen…" I turned my head back to the duo upon the couch. "If I am not much mistaken, my friend, I believe the time has come for you to see what _I_ may see."

The ripple of tension that slipped through the room then was palpable before Watson inhaled deeply and rose from his seat to take on the mantle of physician to me once more. "Of course," he said with a determined cheeriness and optimism. "Just let me fetch my bag and we shall get straight to returning things to normal, eh?"

The removal of bandages and swabs from my eyes began auspiciously, with the burns and swelling having responded exceedingly well to treatment. Both Watson's and Mrs. Hudson's attentions had borne a good deal of fruit. The skin was red and sore still but had healed remarkably thus far…but I had never opened my eyes during their ministrations, having been told to keep the light from them for the full five days as ordered.

Upon gradually opening eyelids that felt like tender lead weights, I informed them after a few long moments that there had been no improvement.

The news was met with silence of a momentary sort, the stricken kind that is immediately followed by a loud burst of forced philosophical utterances such as, "Ah well, not to worry, it is early days yet, my dear chap," and "Yes, let us give it a little more time…besides, we are doing very well as we are, I think!"

I need hardly say, of course, that I knew both of them were deeply worried, the catch in Miss Thurlow's voice as she went to inform Mrs. Hudson clearly registering with me even now.

In the aftermath of this event, Watson provided me, upon my request, with a pair of dark glasses often issued to blind men to remove the discomfort given others by their often staring eyes. Afterwards, I asked him to remove himself to the environs of Scotland Yard to see what might have come of our baited trap and asked Mrs. Hudson to have one of the boys run an errand for me.

The afternoon wore on slowly as I waited impatiently for news back from Watson, Miss Thurlow doing her best to engage me by reading a little from a novel she had brought with her -- A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, chosen for the express purpose of rectifying a comment I had made to her almost two years ago about never having read any of his works. Her recall of this incident only confirmed to me that, when it comes to trivialities, women share with elephants a memory of some magnitude and longevity.

Around the late afternoon, while she read to me, the doorbell jangled below and Mrs. Hudson, who had been labouring in the kitchen and her work having been hampered by the continuous difficulties with the oven, was heard to answer it.

Muffled conversation following the door being closed indicated that whoever it was had been granted access, a sound of jangling iron leaving us both of the opinion that it must be a workman at last come to help her.

Mrs. Hudson's retreating voice, however, was immediately followed by the sound of running footsteps up the stairs and a startled cry by my landlady.

Miss Thurlow rose almost immediately to her feet. "Perhaps I should see what is the matter," she stated, crossing rapidly towards the door.

Rising to my own feet, I took a step, my hand reaching out in a vain gesture of halting her. "Helen...take care..."

Before I had even ceased to speak, the door swung open rapidly and a man later described to me by Miss Thurlow as moustachioed, thickset, dressed in tweeds with a flat cap, and bright inquisitive eyes came face to face with her. A cockney accent floated over her head towards me. "Afternoon, Miss..."

Normally, Miss Thurlow was never at a loss for words. In fact, in general I had found that when taken unawares, words tumbled from her lips in such a fashion as to shame Victoria Falls itself. However, so startled was she by the manner of this man's arrival and the chirpy polite style of his greeting that her lips remained frozen until she finally managed to bluster, "Sir! What is the meaning of this? These are private rooms!"

"Yes, yes..." He nodded quickly, his voice so distracted that it could mean only that his attention was fixed elsewhere…on someone else. "Right you are, Miss." A strangled outcry of feminine outrage reached my ears a moment later when, as I stood there blind to what was going on, hands moved around Miss Thurlow's waist and grasped her firmly. Once again, afterwards in great detail and livid to boot, Miss Thurlow described to me how the intruder picked her up and set her aside in one swift motion before he moved into the room. "Mr. Holmes, a pleasure to see you up and around."

"How dare you, sir! Remove yourself at once!" Miss Thurlow berated him, her words followed by her quickly moving feet to locate herself once more in his way.

"Who are you, sir?" said I.

"Phelps, Mr. Holmes. Reginald Phelps, the _Gazette_..." came the reply as the reporter stepped around his diminutive blockade once more. "And you, sir, are a 'ard man to get to see!" Moving forward, I felt a brush of air across my skin as he brazenly waved his hand in front of my face. "Something I see you're 'aving a smidge of trouble with yourself, sir," he tutted reproachfully. "And 'ere I thought to find you on your death bed." A smile touched his voice. "You should remember to 'ave your nurse 'ere draw your curtains at an earlier hour. Your sil'ouette, Mr. Holmes, is a…singular one."

"Sir!" came Miss Thurlow's voice, even more irate as she tried to move between us yet again. "Leave! Now, or I shall summon the police if Mrs. Hudson hasn't already!"

"Now, now, miss...never you worry your pretty little 'ead about your patient. I only want to ask him a few questions. Chiefly about 'is deceiving the public the way he 'as," said Phelps. "So...this was your accident, was it Mr. Holmes? Shame…a real shame." There was a pause before he spoke again, his next question indicating he had taken in the room, the newspapers scattered about, and worst of all the blackboard with its deciphered message still emblazoned upon it. "Not that it seems it's gone 'n stopped you in your work, now 'as it? Seems as you 'ave been busy, Mr. Holmes. Lowther Arcade, eh?" His voice grew a deal less chirpy and far, far graver. "Won't nothing ever get you off the scent? Even in this state…don't you know how vulnerable you are? All it took was a little determination to get in 'ere, and me just a 'umble journalist. Don't you think villains might find it all too easy?"

"Mr. Phelps..." I replied tightly, "you have discovered all you are going to. I suggest you leave now or you will discover a good deal more about the true state of my health."

From downstairs came the sound of Mrs. Hudson's voice returning with one of the officers posted on the street by Lestrade.

Miss Thurlow's voice was thick with fury. "Sir! You will leave...now," she stated. "You have no right to be here, and rest assured I will be filing a complaint with your editor."

Mr. Phelps's tone lightened once more as the police officer's footsteps on the stairs grew more audible. "Pleasure making your acquaintance, Miss...?" he enquired after her name cheekily.

"All right you..." came Officer Murphy's voice a moment later, "that's quite enough of that. You're coming with me...trespassing on private property."

"Freedom of the press, officer..." protested Phelps without the slightest amount of care in his voice, amusement seeming far more his attitude. "Public 'ave a right to know, don't y'know."

"Aye..." Murphy snorted. "Tell it to the beak."

"Don't forget to buy the _Gazette_, Mr. Holmes!" called back Phelps as he was led away. "You can add it to your scrapbook collection!"

"What...cheek!" Miss Thurlow exclaimed with severe irritation as she returned from following both men to the door, Mrs. Hudson in her wake.

"The gall of the man!" Mrs. Hudson agreed. "Coming in here as bold as brass, pretending to be Mr. Oliver's workman! _What_ is the world coming to? Who was he? Are you and Mr. Holmes quite all right?"

"A reporter," said the younger woman, obviously trying to control her temper before making her way back to me. "Are you all right, Sherlock?" she enquired, laying a hand on my arm.

"It seems the world shall know of my impairment before morning," I said quietly, a wry half smile upon my face that did not speak of amusement. "_And_ that I work still upon this case...with some success."

"I could go down to his paper...ask the editor to withhold the story..." Miss Thurlow suggested.

"No..." I shook my head. "No. I doubt there is anything you could do to stop them running such a story, save perhaps to purchase the newspaper. And though I know you could..." my smile grew a little as my head turned in her direction, "_that_ is rather too extravagant a gesture. Thank you, Helen, but what is done is done. And I'm rather afraid there is nothing to be done but see where this leads us."

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Thank you so much again for all your kind reads and/or reviews! We're thrilled you are continuing to read the story. :D We apologise it wasn't up sooner, but alas Darth Real Life is being a bit of a pain at the moment and left us both racing around to catch up. I'm crossing my fingers that I'll have chapter seven ready in a week, but our Snape story is needing an update too. (flails) I must say we are loving the new ability here to reply to reviews and answer questions, just remember, you have to be logged in when you review for it to work. So, if you want an answer to any question, please check to see if you are logged in. Thanks! Right...I have a stack load of editing to do and work on my desk. Till next week! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire) **_


	7. Blind Justice Part Three

**_Chapter Seven: Blind Justice - Part Three_**

_London, 7th June, 1890_

Watson shifted upon his seat outside the café in the pleasant surrounds of Lowther Arcade. It was a comfortable enough seat upon which to rest for a cup of coffee or even a light collation, but after an hour seated upon wrought iron, of whatever quality, one's comfort started to wane. Looking over his newspaper, he briefly took in the scene around him. The emporium was as busy as ever, its clientele entering from both the West Strand and St. Martin's entrances; their arrival and departure facilitated by the nearby Charing Cross Station.

Named for Lord Lowther, who had been instrumental in leading improvements in the area of The Strand in the 1820's, and surmounted with glass domes of elegant design, the pleasant covered walks between the shops and galleries that lined the bazaar were filled with browsers. Many of whom were foreign, most passing the afternoon away removed from the June heat and wandering casually here and there in their search for bargains in the moderately priced thoroughfare.

The Arcade was home to a myriad of toy stores, galleries, cheap jewellery sellers, book stores, and other establishments as encourage window shoppers. Such copious, flowing, browsing patronage made the fact that Number 46 - Lowther Arcade was closed and shuttered of little note to anyone.

Not seeking the so called Maplethorpe Gallery, patrons of the arcade merely shrugged and moved on upon seeing it closed. It was, Watson had opined to himself, the almost perfect place to be seen yet unseen. With a crowd but no customers, it was just the thing to hide those who wished to deliver auction bids for stolen property through the only open part of the edifice -- the letter box. A perfectly fine looking gentleman would not be thought out of place delivering a letter and moving on.

He had, without Holmes's prompting, thought to enquire as to the rental of the place, for the shops there were all leased. It had come as little surprise to him to discover that the agent named upon the lease was a Mr. Bootle of Leeds. Two months' rent had been paid upon the Strand property and until there was a complaint or the next month's rent failed to appear promptly, the owners had no further interest in the transaction.

They would not, Watson had thought as he had walked away, give a second thought to their tenant defaulting in two months' time. The business of shop ownership carried with it such a risk these days that businesses came and went in London at such a rate it made a man's head spin. A seemingly failed enterprise or a businessman too lax to attend to his business would be no novelty to the owners.

Returning his attention to his newspaper, he endeavoured not to frown again at its headline, though it was hard to ignore as the same headline blazed from almost every reputable metropolitan paper today. _Sherlock Holmes Blinded_! Phelps, though he had claimed to be with one newspaper, had obviously thought to spread the story around, no doubt in return for handsome remuneration, Watson surmised sourly.

Each editorial he had read proved less and less accurate as the rascally journalist's story was stretched thinner and thinner, fleshed out by some of the more lurid journals with hearsay passing as fact. Most notably it was in the description of the circumstances of his friend's condition, Phelps having formed and distributed the opinion that Holmes was a broken, desperate man now under nursing care and yet trying to save face by hiding his true condition, while foolishly and hopelessly working on.

Poppycock and piffle, Watson thought to himself, rising from his uncomfortable seat and folding his newspaper. Let us see just how hopeless this is, he thought with determination as he glanced about him. To their credit, the Inspector and his men were still expertly out of sight. They had not trapped a fish in their net yesterday but that was not from obviousness. Today would be the day, he told himself. He was sure of it, which was why he had chosen to remain here.

All told, he had been there three hours now, and to prove it he had several packages he had purchased to aid in his legitimate pose as a shopper. Admittedly, they still had not had a nibble upon the letterbox of the eponymous gallery but if nothing else, he sighed to himself as he gathered up the three parcels, Mary would at least have a new book to read and some Turkish Delight to nibble on as she did so.

He really would have to take her on a holiday soon to make up for all this, he decided as he proceeded to browse for what would have to be the final time. He could not remain within sight of the gallery for too much longer without starting to look suspicious himself.

The thought of holidays upon his mind, he returned across the way to the small travel agents right beside the shuttered gallery. Gazing wistfully at the fine exotic cruises advertised for the White Star and Cunard lines, he turned his attention to the entirely more affordable and less time consuming domestic offers. It was June and therefore everything was a tad more expensive, but as he perused the likes of holiday cottages in the Cotswolds, the Lake District, or board and lodging in Blackpool with its tremendous light show, his eye fell upon a small hotel in Eastbourne upon the front.

Eastbourne. He shifted his parcels under his arm. It did not have the promenade at Blackpool, but neither would it be as crowded or bustling…and something a little more relaxed was what was necessary -- a nice small hotel, a room with a view over the sea, quiet walks, tea on the front, take a little sun and go swimming, some lawn tennis perhaps, Mary in her fine white dress with the lace collar and he in his blazer and boater as they walked with arms entwined. Yes…a small smile curled under his moustache…that sounded rather fine. Rather fine, indeed.

The letter was already in the letterbox before it even registered with him that someone had arrived at the gallery. Only the clank of the iron cover falling back into place roused him, and he turned, somewhat startled, at the sight of a well-dressed young man turning his back on him and beginning to move away.

Looking about him frantically, Watson searched for any sign of movement from the police officers in mufti that he knew to be around the place. He saw men pushing to the crowd heading from the far corners, and Lestrade and another moving in from near where he himself had come, aiming to join him. But he also noted how the bustle of the crowd hampered them, and so he took action.

Stepping forward, he jostled the young man rather badly and deliberately dropped his book. "I do beg your pardon," he apologised, juggling his remaining parcels in an acrobatic fashion. "This crowd, you know."

The young man -- handsome, mid twenties, a gentleman by his attire -- righted himself and glanced around him, his frown dissipating upon the doctor's apology. "Not at all…" came the polite reply and smile, "in fact, allow me." While the young man took off his hat and bent down to retrieve the lost parcel, Watson looked about him quickly once more and was relieved to see the net closing, in particular Lestrade and his officer now right behind him.

A moment later, the two police officers were under him as the young man drove like a sprinter from his mark from the ground below, his head ramming into Watson's midriff. Blasting the air from the older man's lungs, he hurtled the doctor backwards and into the oncoming police officers, sending all three of them sprawling.

Startled cries went up from those around them as the gap in the net appeared and the young man bolted like a rabbit, hurdling the fallen officers and heading for the Strand exit of the emporium. Shouts of "Stop that man!" went up from the other officers even as the crowd parted for him like the Red Sea for Moses, the mayhem and fallen men making the crowd fearful that some weapon was in use.

Gasping for air, Watson, struggling to sit up, was half pushed upright by Lestrade and his man. Cursing under his breath, the inspector dragged himself up and gave chase. Aided by a couple of onlookers, Watson stood, his lungs heaving as he watched with swimming eyes while the pursued shoved a young woman into the path of the men behind him before knocking another man who attempted to aid to the police to the ground with as vicious a blow with the elbow as he had ever seen.

Gentleman he may have appeared to be, but the awareness of what advantage he could take of what was around him and the alacrity and viciousness with which he took that advantage spoke of an entirely different background. The skills from which almost enabled him to make it to the entrance of the emporium and away.

Despite his pomposity and having already been burned once upon this case, Lestrade had not made a mistake…a cordon of police officers along with the emporium's beadles blocked the way of the pursued man and hands were soon laid upon him.

Watson gathered up his discarded parcels and made with what haste he could to the scene of the struggle, hearing Lestrade call out, "Don't cosh him! I want a word with this young man…and I'd like him good and coherent."

Coherent he most certainly was for a diatribe of vitriol of the sort that had the ladies within earshot gasping fell from his lips to the point that other officers had to move the crowd along. His invective was silenced only when Lestrade approached him, his words reduced to "Get your hands off me…I've done nothing!" while he struggled.

"Well, now…Mr. Benjamin Marshall." Lestrade smiled slowly. "Running errands again, are we? And here I thought you had progressed a deal further in your uncle's estimation."

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Marshall answered. "I was merely out browsing."

"Ah…naturally," said the Inspector. "Which is why you accosted this gentleman here," he indicated Watson, "and ran like billy-o from us."

Marshall's face resolved itself into a sour glare. "You'd best let me go, Lestrade, or my uncle will see to it that you…"

"Thank you, Mr. Marshall," Lestrade interrupted him smugly, "you've just given me more grounds to hold you. Threatening a police officer." He instructed the plain clothes officer beside him, who nodded and retrieved a notebook from his inner pocket, writing down the charge. "Common assault upon a fellow citizen…and failure to follow a police directive."

Watson glanced from the prisoner held between two officers to the inspector. "Forgive me. His uncle?" he enquired.

Lestrade snorted. "The self-styled Herbert Marshall, Esquire of Elm Park Gardens, Chelsea. Something of a law unto himself. A whale of a man with an ego to match. I always told him his confidence would be his undoing, and I'm hoping today will be that day." His eyes flashed eagerly as he spoke.

"What manner of man is he?" asked Watson.

"He's a gentleman," Marshall junior snapped before glaring at Lestrade. "And it's not hard to be confident in the face of incompetents."

"He's a thief from Pimlico, who dragged himself up by his bootstraps," Lestrade countered, shooting a distasteful look at the prisoner. "Gentrified both himself and the street urchin son of his unmarried sister, made himself some connections, and went into the business of poppies."

Watson frowned even as Marshall raised his chin. "It's not illegal. Our imported product is used for the production of medicines…laudanum and the like."

"Oh yes…" the Inspector agreed readily enough, "I'd say a good twenty percent of it. The rest seems to mysteriously find its way onto the back streets of London."

"You have no proof of that, Lestrade." Marshall's lips curled into a rather smug smile. "Nor will you get any."

"Perhaps I won't need any after today. Your uncle's taste for fine things may have sailed him a little close to the wind this day." Lestrade glanced back at Watson. "Herbert Marshall has gotten quite the name as a bon vivant and art collector. His collection of artworks are, I believe, quite impressive. Though the ones on show in various galleries throughout the country are, I have no doubt, nowhere near as notable as the private collection most definitely _not _open to the public."

Marshall junior looked away. "You're dreaming, Lestrade. My uncle's a businessman, nothing more."

"And I'm the Kaiser of Germany," the Inspector responded just as another officer arrived and handed him a plain white envelope. "Ah…" Lestrade smiled again. "Now let's see what else we can add, shall we?" he asked his prisoner before perusing the envelope that had clearly been taken from the letterbox of the gallery. "No address…no return address…how unusual."

"That's private property!" Marshall barked, only to wince as the large hands about him tightened.

"Yes…" Lestrade mumbled as he opened the envelope. "So is much of what you and your uncle acquire illegally."

"That's slander!"

"What is?" the Inspector enquired absently as he unfolded the contents of the letter.

"What you just said about my uncle and I, Lestrade!"

Lestrade looked up at him and then around at his men. "Oh dear, did I say something slanderous?"

"Never heard a word, sir."

"Not that I heard, Inspector."

"Didn't even hear you speak, sir." The chorus of responses came from around the assembled men before Lestrade turned his enquiring eyes to Watson.

The doctor was not given to untruths but his aching stomach, lungs, and ribs demanded some compensation from the obvious villain, and clearing his throat a little, he once more feigned apology to the man. "I'm rather afraid I didn't hear a thing. Oxygen deprivation has some odd side effects, don't you know."

Marshall's snort was derisive even as he glanced tentatively at what the Inspector was reading, the expression on his face leaving Watson with the impression that the younger man was unsure of the contents.

"Care to explain this?" Lestrade asked, approaching him and turning the letter he was holding around so Marshall could see the words.

TSERETNI LIN SE

00001 SA

The captive glanced over the lines. "TSERETNI…sounds like an artist to me." He cocked his head at the inspector. "What a shock, my uncle _was_ looking for a painting from a gallery."

"A closed and shuttered gallery that's been here a week and hasn't opened its doors once?" Lestrade snapped at him as he grew closer. "Well, at least you admit it was your uncle who sent you." Turning away, the Inspector frowned a little and moved to the doctor. "Well, it's code again, Doctor. What do you make of it? Same as the one…" he dipped his voice, "Mr. Holmes uncovered?"

"Actually it was Miss Thurlow…with Holmes's supervision," Watson said absently in equally quiet tones as he took the letter and looked it over.

"Yes…well…Mr. Holmes is often happy to give credit away," Lestrade sniffed.

Watson blinked but said nothing, turning his attention to the letter's contents once more. "Yes, it appears to be the same pattern of reflective writing, Inspector." Borrowing a pencil from the officer with the notebook, he leaned the letter against his parcels and rewrote it.

ES NIL INTEREST

AS 10000

Handing it back to the Inspector, Watson watched as Lestrade read and nodded. "ES…Ebony Snake…no bid….AS….Abydos Sceptre, 10, 000 pounds, " he said out loud before turning to Marshall and holding up the paper.

"Who's behind this?" he demanded. "We know you're bidding on stolen property -- one of which has the blood of an innocent man all over it." On seeing Benjamin Marshall's uncertain countenance grow at that, Lestrade pressed home his advantage.

"You're looking at hard time for this, my boy…you and your uncle both. So make it easy on yourselves. Tell me who is the one you're delivering these bids too. Who is selling them?"

"I don't know anything," Marshall replied, the first note of hesitancy in his voice.

"Where's your uncle?" Lestrade demanded.

"I don't know! On business!" The young man began to struggle again.

"Just how deep are you in all this?" came the next question. "Did you have a hand in the thefts? Did you put in a request, commission them? Do you have more blood on your hands, Marshall? _Provable_ blood, unlike those wretched souls who venture into the opium dens you and your corpulent uncle supply," Lestrade probed, his harsh, rapid questioning clearly designed to unsettle the man rather than deal with accuracy. "Tell me who you were dealing with or I'll see to it that you swing for the death of Jack Halliwell!"

Watson watched on as the two men remained gazing at each other in silence, the younger one becoming more and more unnerved. Despite the Inspector's many shortcomings, the doctor had to admit that Lestrade was definitely on form today.

"I have no idea," Marshall sneered. "And even if I did, given the way he's had you and the Yard running around in circles and even gave the great Sherlock Holmes the slip, I'd rather do time than hand him over to police hands. The man deserves a medal for the entertainment he's given us. So you can go to the Devil, Lestrade."

Lestrade's lips tightened into an angry line. "I believe I shall, Mr. Marshall. And I'm sure he'll know." He checked his watch. "So let us find your uncle, shall we?" Glancing at the men who held the young man, he nodded. "Restrain our young friend here. The rest of you back to the vehicles…Mr. Marshall here is going to take us on an outing."

The majority of the men turned and headed off towards the police cabs parked beyond the arcade, one of the officers releasing his hold on Marshall to reach for his restraints hanging on his belt. The moment he did, however, Benjamin Marshall's foot came down like a piston upon the inside of his other captor's foot, causing the officer to cry out in pain and loosen his hold upon him.

It was all the young man required. With a tug, his arms were free. A blow laid the other officer out upon the ground, and then, in a flash, he was running for the crowd once again. Lestrade gave out a cry of anger that alerted his departing men to the flight of their prisoner and sent them dashing back.

The crowd within the arcade, having been assured that there was nothing more to see, and being mostly middle class had moved on at the police officers' behest, were mostly oblivious to this rapid turn of events. One or two stragglers apart, Marshall's re-entry into their number caused only a ripple of dissent as he took more care this time, seeking to lose himself in their number.

Lestrade and Watson, however, were after him quickly, watching his movements, and once more shouts went up to alert those ahead of them to the existence of a fugitive in their midst. The doctor, still valiantly clutching the gifts for his wife, and the Inspector followed in Marshall's wake as best they could, eager to keep track of him, as Lestrade barked orders to his men to get to the other exits as quickly as they could in the vehicles parked outside.

Only once did they lose sight of him -- when Marshall dodged to the left into a large group of people near the exit of a café. To their surprise as they pushed through after him, they found him standing quite still on the other side, his back to them.

"Ah…" Lestrade said, puffing a little, "came to your senses, young man? Realised it was a futile plan, did you?"

Watson's arm restrained the Inspector as he saw Marshall wobble before turning around gradually. Both the doctor's and Inspector's eyes were drawn first to the ashen faced look of horror on the attractive young man's face, and then to the hand he clutched so tightly against his chest -- only then noticing the blood that trickled through his fingers.

"Good God!" Watson gasped. "He's been stabbed." Moving instantly forward, his packages clattering to the ground, he reached out his arms to catch Marshall. But he was already quite dead…his murderer long since disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

_Sussex, 1911_

As I sit here now, removed from these events by so many years, it occurs to me how much of my time I have invested in dealings with the members of the press. The media are a ravening modern titan. Ever rapacious and constantly more sensationalist, they regurgitate their wares to the prurient public claiming it is _they_ who demand such information from them, even while the press themselves encourage society to even greater salaciousness.

My work, or rather the cases I have been involved in…for they show little interest in my methods…had been a fascination for the press through the years. Their profligate carelessness with particulars, however, was one of the reasons I allowed Dr. Watson to both document and publish details of certain cases we had undertaken.

This is not to say that I have not met amiable, intelligent, and responsible men amongst the press, nor that I have not applied quid pro quo and utilised the press to my own aims, as I had in this case when allowing them to think I was greatly ill. At this point in my recounting, the tables had turned and the press had revealed both the truth of the extent of my injuries and my actions since suffering them…all with their own particular twist, of course, as to my mental state.

The press arrived en masse once more to Baker Street. This time we, or rather Mrs. Hudson, was left to her own devices in dealing with them as Watson was partaking in the hunt at Lowther Arcade -- and a peeved Scotland Yard, unhappy with being deceived as to my health, had declined to leave our two stalwart police officers _in situ_. After the invasion by Mr. Phelps the night before, it had been evident that something akin to this second press incursion would inevitably occur. And so we advised Miss Thurlow not to arrive at Baker Street the following morning until she received word.

But rather than suffer a blockade in our own home, Mrs. Hudson had calmly drawn the curtains in my rooms, and when they presented themselves at first light the next morning, cleverly informed the gentlemen of the fourth estate that I had slipped abroad the previous night after the abhorrent intrusion. Well used to such flights and more than convinced by Mrs. Hudson's aversion filled reaction to all of them…giving them a piece of her mind about manners…they left after a time, no doubt to pursue me across the continent, and peace descended upon Baker Street once more.

Miss Thurlow arrived shortly after, having being summoned back by young Max, one of the Irregulars, who thrilled at the carriage ride back with her. Watson in turn returned to us that night, understandably perturbed. The first day's observation of the faux gallery in Lowther Arcade had furnished nothing, the second a deal too much.

The clinical and brazen murder of the young courier of an illegal auction bid, Mr. Benjamin Marshall, was not something I had foreseen. From Watson's descriptions of what had occurred during his questioning it seemed to me that the man himself had known nothing of who was behind these thefts. He may have admired the thief, but his running from the officers indicated that he had no wish to lead Lestrade and his men to his uncle. Which, coupled with Herbert Marshall's knowledge of the reflective code used this time, indicated that the older Marshall had closer contact with our robber.

"But why_ kill_ him?" Watson queried angrily of myself and Miss Thurlow as he stood by the unlit fireplace, the smell of his cigarette smoke in my nostrils.

"Why, to make the messenger the message, Watson," I replied, sitting back in my chair.

"The message?" he repeated before the light of recognition lit upon his face. "I see…to his uncle…to keep silent."

"Quite so," said I, a frown upon my face. "A particularly bloody message. He feels the net drawing tight and is unfortunately taking steps to cut his way through it."

"But would Herbert Marshall not react furiously to his nephew's death?" Miss Thurlow, silent up to this moment, enquired of me, her tone showing me that she had been taking a careful interest. "Tell the police who he was, out of revenge?"

"If he was a decent man, undoubtedly. But Inspector Lestrade was quite correct in his assessment of Mr. Marshall senior. He is a man who lives by his own rules, cares little for the welfare of others, and loves his own life far too much to risk it on anyone. The execution like style of his nephew's death will be quite clearly received and understood."

"I see…" Miss Thurlow said as Watson moved across to his chair with a sigh.

"I should tell you, Holmes," my colleague informed me, "Chief Inspector Girard was livid when we returned to Scotland Yard. A second death, this time in broad daylight _and _in public. He's threatened Lestrade with seeing he is dismissed for his incompetence."

"I would imagine he was almost as angry about not being informed about the trap." I turned my head towards my friend, hearing the clink of Miss Thurlow's tea cup as she placed it on her saucer. "He only learned of it this morning, did he not?"

"Yes. As planned, the Chief Inspector was at the Home Office for the greater part of yesterday and returned home directly. And seeing he only learned of your true condition from the newspapers and your involvement in all this from Lestrade and me, he's none too pleased with you, Holmes."

My lips pulled up into a small smile. "I have little doubt of it."

"He has quite the temper on him, I assure you," Watson continued. "He wishes to know why he was not informed of your continued presence on this case and why you did not think to include him in your deception regarding your health and sight. He asked me to inform you that he will be calling upon you tomorrow to speak at length on this and will not be shy about conveying his disapproval to the press." My friend paused. "I'm rather afraid he plans to use you as a scapegoat for this death, Holmes."

"I confess I do feel part way responsible for young Marshall's death," I answered sombrely. "He has been growing ever more careless of late, and I should have realised the tightening noose would bring about a more impulsive reaction."

"You speak almost as if you know him," Miss Thurlow remarked quietly before the doctor, his past experiences with me having taught him when to be alert to certain tells, hesitatingly enquired, "Holmes…_do_ you know him?"

"All I know for sure," I replied, "is that it's quite clear we must be on our guard. The man has killed to send a message to those who do know him to keep silent. And thanks to the newspapers and today's events…he now knows that I am 'desperately' trying to catch him to preserve my dignity...and even though I may be a 'broken man'…it seems I came perilously close to unveiling him today."

"Then you are in danger!" Watson's voice rose as he did, not quite masking Miss Thurlow's sharp inhale as she too came to the same realisation.

"It would appear so." I nodded calmly. "Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson is abroad this evening, Helen's presence making it possible for her to attend the performance of _The Gondoliers_ at the Savoy Theatre she has been planning for some time. An evening's enjoyment she has most certainly earned. However, Watson," I said, rising to my feet. "I would appreciate it if you would immediately run the following errands for me this evening.

"Firstly, leave here and fetch two cabs. One will be for yourself, which you will take to the now New Scotland Yard and plead Inspector Lestrade's indulgence. Explain the situation and ask him to return here with some men. You yourself will proceed to the Savoy Theatre, wait for the end of the performance, and, if you would be so kind, conduct Mrs. Hudson to the safe environs of _your_ home, citing precautions to her only. Mary will surely make her welcome under her roof."

"You may rely upon it," Watson agreed wholeheartedly of his wife. "I shall return as soon as that is done."

I smiled at my friend and colleague. "Your company, as always, will be much appreciated."

The doctor moved to fetch his coat. "But what of the second cab?" he queried.

"Have it wait at the end of the street. _Miss Thurlow _will be leaving a moment or two after you depart."

"Very good," he agreed, turning to address her. "It should only take me a minute or two to find one, Helen. Time enough for you to fetch your belongings and prepare to depart. I shall return as quickly as possible, Holmes…shall I leave you my revolver?" He stopped near the doorway, his question tentative as he wondered about the validity of leaving a gun in the hands of a blind man.

"No need," I assuaged him. "I shall be perfectly fine until your return, I am sure."

He departed quickly, leaving me with my _aide_, who I noticed with no real surprise had not so much as moved an inch from where she had been seated. "I must presume from your inactivity," I said to her after a moment while taking my seat once more, "that you intend your departure will not pass off without discussion?"

"You may be assured of it, Sherlock," she replied, the stubborn edge to her tone failing to mask her unease. "I do not like the idea of leaving you alone as is…but especially not after you have just now clearly told us that your life may be in peril. Every instinct in me is telling me that to leave you now would be foolhardy, to say the least."

"_Instinct_…" I replied, a weariness creeping into my tone. "Let us put aside that bastion of womanly intellect for a moment and make use of your faculties of logic instead, shall we? What does logic dictate that my actions will be with regards to yourself when I have just sent the doctor to fetch Mrs. Hudson, whose _home_ this is, to stay with him?"

Her answer came reluctantly. "That you will send me home."

"Unquestionably."

"But _logically_, given your condition," she continued dogmatically, "your actions also indicate you are being reckless…or…knowing you as I do, that you are planning a trap."

"_Or_..." I emphasised the word lightly, "that I am merely concerned for your well-being and wish you removed from danger. Something you will kindly see to at once. I believe you left your belongings in my room upon your arrival today." I indicated the far room with a firm pointing of a finger in its direction.

And yet she remained resolutely upon the couch

"Sherlock, you know I have no doubts as to your concern for my safety...nor under normal circumstances, your ability to handle yourself in a dangerous situation...but...how can you defend yourself against someone you cannot even see? There is no logic in staying put or setting a trap when you cannot protect yourself fully when it is sprung."

"The Inspector and his men will be here shortly. It should not take Watson long to reach the Yard at this time of night, so any danger to me is minimal." I waved her concern away. "And unless I am very much mistaken, we have had this discussion once before, Helen. The outcome of which was your agreeing not to place yourself in peril and to listen to my words in future."

One could almost hear her mind weighing her promise against her concern. "I know..." she conceded, "and I won't...but perhaps it may be prudent for me to wait with you until the Inspector arrives?"

"And how, pray tell," I said with a note of exasperation, "is that not placing yourself in peril? Helen...you must leave me. I will not have you in even a modicum of jeopardy if avoidable. I will _not_ have you be a concern for me, for in doing so you will impair me even more than the accident ever did."

And still she did not move.

"Sherlock..." she tried again, her stubborn streak quite confounding me, "you know I do not wish to be an obstacle or an impairment...but..."

"You may not wish it, but that _is_ what you will be," I interrupted her, a cool edge in my voice as I attempted to contain my annoyance. "Restrain your emotionalism, Helen. This is a case. _My work_. I have warned you often enough about what that involves, and if you are to be part of it and retain my faith in you, you must act as I direct. Now _leave_."

A silence descended upon her at the cold demand of my words, and finally her skirts rustled as she rose to her feet, each step conveying reluctance as she moved slowly towards the bedroom to gather her belongings.

As she did, the sound of a door closing quietly down below, followed by footsteps on the stairs, turned my thoughts from her towards the staircase. Each person's footfalls upon those stairs was different to me, a signature if you will, and this one was a stranger's.

"We have a visitor. A little earlier than I would've thought," I said thoughtfully from where I sat before remembering precisely my previous worry, my thoughts turning back to Miss Thurlow. "Into the bedroom!" I whispered to her sharply, having no more truck with debate. "Hide yourself and remain so, no matter what you hear!"

She did as I asked, though I heard no click of the door as she prudently avoided closing it fully for fear of the noise alerting our intruder to her presence.

My hand reached for my Persian slipper and pipe that she had placed earlier upon the small table beside my chair. The footsteps outside, their pace unhurried though perhaps a little cautious, continued their inexorable approach as I filled my pipe with fragrant black shag.

The steps ceased by the door. "Come, come," I called out evenly. "You invited yourself onto the premises, why hesitate now to take the last few steps? You are earlier than expected, but do come in, Chief Inspector."

The door handle turned as I reached for my matches and lit my now filled pipe. "And here I thought you were not planning to call upon me until tomorrow." I drew upon the tobacco in its rosewood bowl.

Chief Inspector Girard, as I had recalled from our few previous encounters, was a medium built man in his late fifties, though well preserved, clean shaven, and always in possession of a neat military haircut. His eyes were dark and perceptive, reflective of a fine intelligence honed by both an education and a knowledge of the streets. His temper, as Watson had indicated, was legendary when fired, though for the most part he was of an approachable and even nature.

His voice was a light tenor, his accent difficult to pin point, neither upper nor lower class inflections terribly obvious as he replied without surprise, "My apologies, Mr. Holmes, but I felt it was well past time I paid my respects."

"Of the last kind, no doubt?" I enquired before a frown creased my brow and a sigh escaped my lips. "I had hoped somehow that our paths would not cross tonight. For once, I confess myself deeply disappointed that I was right."

The door creaked closed behind Girard. "And _I_ that this must conclude the way it shall. It is not something I am looking forward to, I assure you." A click indicated the completion of our seclusion together. "But I'm rather afraid it must be so."

"Of course," I replied. "With two men dead, what difference does three make? It is little enough to ensure the survival of your wife and a fine retirement for you both, is it not?"

"I take no pleasure in either of the deaths, Mr. Holmes." His footsteps moved through the room, his clothes whispering as he sat opposite me. "Such actions were never my intention when I began. My only intention was theft, and though it is a weak enough justification, only from those who could afford it." A long slow breath escaped him. "I especially regret the death of Jack Halliwell," he reflected. "That was not by my hand, but by my oversight. I overlooked something in the planning, which resulted in Mr. Halliwell not being placed where he should have been, and one of the men I hired panicked and fired when there was no need…it made my job a great deal harder."

"No doubt it made Mrs. Halliwell's life a great deal harder to boot," I added calmly. "And while on that subject, my compliments on your performance when you spoke with her. It takes a considerably unsentimental soul to face the grieving widow of the man whose death you are responsible for and vow to catch the perpetrator."

"As you say, Mr. Holmes," Girard returned, his tone cool. "And I did feel for her but…I had my own wife to consider."

"Naturally…so where was it to be, Inspector? Austria? Switzerland?"

"Austria. In fact, I am pleased to say she is already on her way as of earlier this evening. I had hoped to travel with her when the time came, but the situation that you stirred into being dictated that I send her on early, and follow later. For while we police officers have our national boundaries, you sir, do not. And I did not envision spending my retirement years gazing over my shoulder."

"My apologies for disrupting your plans." I inclined my head as I puffed upon my pipe. "And you have my sincerest wishes for your lady wife's full recovery. Consumption is a terrible, lingering corruption. Though it has patently corrupted you too…theft, murder even pick pocketing, I see. I take it the key you used to enter these premises was taken from the good doctor while he was at Scotland Yard today?"

Girard sat back in his chair. "Yes. A simple enough matter. One learns a great many tricks during one's years on the force. A quick imprint…and some obliging connections, and it takes very little time. It is quite fascinating the speed with which they can work, you know."

"Quite," I agreed. "The expertise in certain quarters is quite breathtaking."

There was a pause before he spoke again. "May I ask you a question, Mr. Holmes?"

"You wish to know the circumstances by which I came to know it was you standing outside my door?" I pre-empted him. "Do you have the time? Dr. Watson is even now on his way to the Yard to bring back Lestrade."

"There is time enough," Girard answered calmly. "After my…lecture…to him today, he will take a little convincing at first even to come."

"Very well, Inspector…I shall answer your question if you will answer me one first."

"You wish to know…why?" He pre-empted me in turn.

I gave a slight nod. "I have a vague idea, obviously. The illness of your wife is of course paramount. The key point in the entire affair."

"I love my wife a great deal, sir," the inspector agreed soberly. "She is a sweet and loving person and the only one in my life who has supported, encouraged, and appreciated me for all my abilities. She is a rose who has withered slowly before my eyes this long while. I have spent our savings on making her comfortable at home, for I cannot bear the thought of her locked in the kind of sanatorium that my wages could afford.

"Our money began to run dry in the midst of last year, and doctors' fees began to stretch us. It was either cease her treatment and watch her die before me, starve and risk debtors' prison, or lose her to one of those rat trap hospitals which hasten death rather than prevent it." He inhaled swiftly, his words having taken on a rapid and impassioned tone. "None of these were acceptable, of course. I have watched her suffer for far too long, Mr. Holmes. So I took action."

His sincerity impressed me, and even now I can empathise to a degree. "I can see why it must have proven aggravating. The paucity of a policeman's pay even at the level of Chief Inspector, with retirement looming, would undeniably have left the best available cures well beyond your reach. Meanwhile, men like Herbert Marshall could afford it as easily as _that_." I snapped my fingers to illustrate my point. "The just are ever under appreciated in this world, Inspector," I commiserated. "It does _not_, however, validate their turning unjust.

"Especially when there is a level of self-aggrandisement involved in your choices. For there was, was there not?" I submitted this argument with certainty. "All those years of hard work, your copious talents taken for granted by superiors, and of course, in these last few years, your more prestigious deeds usurped by the media's tiresome interest in an amateur detective from Baker Street? Your high profile targets and use of the media spoke of a man who desired that his talents be seen, appreciated, and even admired, if not by his colleagues then by the public and the underworld."

"You have more than a vague understanding of my reasons, I see, Mr. Holmes, and it was never a personal thing against you, I assure you, sir." Earnestness imbued the Inspector's words. "I have admired you deeply and, of course, was always aware that you would be the greatest threat to me once your attention wandered towards the thefts. I spent a deal of last year reading and studying your past cases, feeling that some of your techniques could easily be applied contrary to the law. Your flair for the theatrical and your eye for detail appeals to me quite a bit. So much so that when I could, I even took to watching you discretely, especially this past while. You have taught me quite a few things…even in my perceived dotage. I am sorry we never got to work together upon a case until now."

"As am I. Perhaps I might have influenced you in another direction," I answered with an element of wistfulness. "And I must admit I have been wondering who was watching me of late. I am pleased to know I was not imagining it." I inclined my head. "Your Mr. Bootle was a clever ruse and your use of disguise might be a flattering mimicry of my work if not used, as was the case today, for murderous purposes. The same man but two differing personas and appearances, confusing for your officers and creating a difficult trail to follow. With the police hostelry The Rose being so near as fruitful a recruiting ground as The Horse & Dragon,it must have been convenience itself to watch for the men you wished to hire and conduct your business as Mr. Bootle without lingering too long.

"Your being installed as the chief investigating officer on these cases was most decidedly a stroke of luck for you, allowing you to keep ahead of the game admirably. And you certainly gained the approbation of the public with your audacity…until the incident with Mr. Halliwell," I reminded him soberly. "Even I was an admirer once I realized that there was one mind behind all the thefts. You were thorough and methodical, at least until the British Museum…" Leaving the sentence hanging, I cocked my head slightly towards him, silently seeking further enlightenment on that point.

"Perceptive as ever." Girard sighed lightly. "Yes, my initial patron, the purchaser of my first purloined item -- the Moravian Star -- took an interest in me. Or at least I was informed he did as I never met him face to face. A method of business I utilised subsequently in my own hiring of men courtesy of 'Mr. Bootle.' Despite my precautions, he discovered my identity with alarming acuity. Once that occurred, I fully expected to be blackmailed of course, but he…or rather his network, surprised me by facilitating my further activities with information, connections, and interested customers such as Herbert Marshall, all of which he has a breathtaking abundance of. It went smoothly enough at first, but then, just as my funds were reaching my target amount, the sword of Damocles that had hung over me since my discovery dropped and he decided that in return for his aid, he should receive a commission…and a quite considerable one."

"Ah…" I raised my chin. "Which put your timetable in jeopardy, naturally."

"Most definitely. I had calculated a certain sum would be required to see to my wife's cure and our comfort in our final days while living abroad. This demand unbalanced

it, and left me with little time to make up the shortfall before I must retire and the advantages given to me by working in the Yard were taken from me."

I nodded slowly. "Advantages that had allowed you access to information, such as transport timetables, security details, blueprints…either by chance or by design. I see your dilemma and why you became less your cautious self. It showed, Chief Inspector, and I must admit I am grateful for it, for it allowed me to anticipate your actions somewhat and apply further pressure upon you. Still…" my query came, "just today you showed your willingness to mark those that crossed you…why not this patron of yours?"

"Alas, as I say, I have never met him nor have any clue as to _his_ true identity. He is not as easily accessible as the Marshalls." The inspector's voice grew tense. "No…he is a far different entity altogether."

"You intrigue me, Inspector…" I leaned forward, the dark glasses that hid my eyes turning more to the sound of his voice. "You sound almost unnerved by him."

"Do I?" he replied. "I suppose I do, and I would afford you more time to question me upon him; however, I believe you still owe me an answer to _my_ initial question?"

"Of course," I agreed politely. "As you know, the devil is in the details and it was in the small things I began to build a picture of the man in question. I have already touched upon your desire to be noticed within your actions and saw either a man out to make his name or under appreciated. The former has a tendency to youth, the latter experience.

"Given our impromptu bout of wrestling and feeling you tire relatively quickly, I surmised youth was not an option. In addition, the witnesses' accounts of the age range of Mr. Bootle were another point in favour of an older man, though admittedly it could have been a truly excellent disguise," I conceded.

"In addition, while in close quarters with you, I detected a decided whiff of gin. Gin is not a gentleman's drink for the most part, and yet given the high profile nature of the targets, the man who masterminded these thefts -- the thief -- had to have been able to move in relative ease in more upmarket surrounds. Therefore, my man was capable of moving between low and high born. My first thoughts led me to a gentleman cracksman.

"And so I began a thorough search of the files the Yard had collated, ironic given that it had undoubtedly been put together by yourself, Chief Inspector. Evidently enough this led me nowhere. And so I was forced to return to the only practical line of enquiry left open to me…one which you knew nothing of as I had never informed the police of my discovery of the means by which the stolen items were being advertised for auction."

"Yes…" Girard breathed, "I must admit when I discovered late last night that Lestrade had found the location at Lowther Arcade, it only confirmed to me what was intimated in the papers this morning, that is that you were still intent upon this case. Lestrade alone would never have the imagination to uncover something like that. My compliments."

I inclined my head once more. "While I worked upon uncovering the next location of your auction, I spent as much time in piecing together what I knew of you, trying to create a picture. A foreign thief perhaps? But a foreigner was too obvious and not likely to convince working men, far cannier than their elevated counterparts, that he was one of them. So a servant…or a tradesman? But neither were likely to have the abilities or the information you exhibited and required.

"No, that was the purview of someone with insight into the shadowy arts of the underworld…be it on one side or the other. And it was then it occurred to me, through all the haze of detail surrounding each and every case, that the only thing every case had in common was police involvement in either the transport and security of the items. The Raphael from France, the Snake from London to Manchester, the Sceptre from Dover to the British Museum, and the police had been consulted on the design of the vault in the Moncrieff's home which Lestrade was able to inform me of. Though he sadly neglected to inform me of the existence of the passageway you were familiar with."

Girard chuckled. "As I say…a man of limited imagination. He rarely strays outside the parameters he is given. If you do not ask for it, you do not receive it. He is a good man when following a straight line of enquiry but give him a curve, a bump, or a missing part of the road and he is quite lost."

"Perhaps." My tone grew cool once more. "But he remains, for all his faults, a man who is true to his oath as an officer…and not one with blood on his hands."

There was silence for a moment before Girard responded. "Just as you say, Mr. Holmes. I am no longer in any fit place to criticise him. He is a good man of the law…and for that he deserves my respect. And you were quite correct in your suppositions, an officer of sufficient rank dealing with cases of all levels over the years and of any quick wit would have become at ease with both worlds."

"Without a doubt," I agreed with a nod. "And someone with the ability to change his persona, as you have proven yourself to have, could convincingly dwell for a short time at least in those surrounds without arousing suspicion. That, coupled with the information you had at your fingertips…especially while Scotland Yard has been in a state of upheaval this past half year or so while moving to new quarters…made you quite the force to be reckoned with."

"And so…" Watson's chair creaked a little as Girard leaned forward to summarise. "You knew your man was older, experienced, versatile, English, and most likely a police officer. Still, such men are not short on the ground in this country…what led you to _me_?"

"Why, a smoking gun, Inspector." I smiled slowly. "Or rather an exploding one. My mind wandered back continuously to that gun, not unnaturally given it had been the last thing I saw before this." I indicated the glasses upon my eyes. "As I said, the gun was not British, that much I knew, and it was an old piece, something of sentiment. Without being able to cross reference it officially, I came to the conclusion from memory that it was old army issue, Russian army issue to be precise. A poorer quality arm and some thirty years or more old. The age and nationality led me in turn to the balaclava worn by our thief during his invasion of the Moncrieff's…an unusual item outside of army issue and first issued during the War of 1854."

I placed my pipe upon the table beside me and exhaled. "There are not a great many men upon the police force who fought and were decorated with distinction at the Crimea, Chief Inspector. How old were you then? Twenty? Twenty-one years old?"

"Twenty two," he informed me as he rose to his feet.

"How is your hand, by the way? Are the burns healing well?" I asked solicitously. "Making use of your famed temper to inform all and sundry you had injured your hand in a fit of pique at the thief having escaped Lestrade's clutches and caused me injury was quite audaciously inspired."

The leather of his glove flexed noisily upon his right hand. "The burns are coming along, thank you. Why did you leave me out of the knowledge of your condition?" The question flowed on from his response, his near indignant tone making me smile.

"Not from suspicion I assure you, Inspector, merely because logic dictates that the fewer people who know, the fewer there are to spread the tale. Lestrade and I have worked together, while you and I have not. I knew his methods and I trusted him to do as I asked, as it is generally in his advantage to do so. I simply felt that allowing _certain people _to believe I was completely incapacitated would encourage them to work on rather than go to ground…_especially_ if they were under pressure, as it seemed to me." My hands grasped the arm of the chair beside me. "And now one more question for you, sir. How precisely do you suppose to get away with my murder?"

"I thought…suicide," replied the Chief Inspector. "The papers did make such a fuss over your desperate state of mind following the loss of your sight. And now your _fraught_ investigations have led only to the death of another man…your career apparently in tatters," he said quietly. "It is well known that your work is your life, Mr. Holmes. With it at an end, it would be only natural for you to finish yourself.

"With Dr. Watson so often in your presence, it would not be hard for you to take one of his knives from his bag...as I did today."

"A knife…a key…it is a wonder the good doctor was not stripped to his undershirt during your activities today." Despite the perilous situation, I was almost amused, though I rose from my chair warily.

"I must admit," said Girard, "he has been a most willing if unwitting accomplice to me. For instance, your unfortunate propensity towards narcotics that was made prominent by him in his literary works helped me formulate this plan. The drugs in question will render you quite anaesthetized as you slash your wrists whilst in the bath...there will be virtually no pain as you slip away." His words were voiced almost comfortingly. "According to the doctor's writings, I believe you keep your drugs in your desk, is that not correct? It should be no particular hardship to pick the lock…though I have also taken the liberty of bringing a needle and vial of my own for you to partake of once I have rendered you unconscious should there be an insufficiency."

My brow furrowed as I began to slightly back away. "Quite the plan…except that others have been with me today and know that I did not appear suicidal."

"In my experience, those who end their lives rarely do." There was a cool intensity in his voice that spoke of his focusing upon what he felt he must do. Listening to it, it was easy to understand how he had planned such expertly calm thievery...and murder. "Many relatives and loved ones I have spoken to in the aftermath of such matters report either a serene quietness about the deceased or some kind of tale that speaks of the future, but encouraged them to leave him or her alone for the time being….something like the threat of being in danger might very well fit, wouldn't you say, Mr. Holmes?" he suggested.

"Perhaps…" I agreed, feeling my way as I moved along the edge of the fireplace. "It certainly seems thorough. How do you know I have not spoken to anyone about you?"

"Logic…" a smile touched his voice while he remained where he was, unconcerned by my fumbling movements, "would dictate that you required proof of my guilt before confronting either myself or the Yard with your suspicions, most certainly after this morning. The doctor could hardly go charging into the Yard accusing me to Lestrade, especially considering what thin ice he is on. Had the doctor known of your suspicions in my direction, I doubt you would have sent him back into the lion's den upon the chance I encountered him tonight and suspected he knew or you did…especially after what happened today in Lowther Arcade. And of course..." he took a few steps, "as you said when I entered, you hoped 'til the end that you were wrong. And as such, you were unwilling, I imagine, to besmirch my good name in advance of that. I am truly sorry to disappoint you."

"There is still the chance that you are wrong," I warned him.

"Perhaps so, but without you there is still the matter of proof…and after your _suicide_, it is doubtful in the extreme that the good doctor will be able to provide any at all."

"A valid point," I conceded, taking several more steps back. "And once done you will slip away."

"As quietly as I came...or Mr. Bootle did," he said. "Such a useful persona and so easily taken on with little more than a wig and some practiced poses of the face and body. He does provide a comforting extra level of protection, I find. I am sorry, Mr. Holmes...but you will feel nothing. Just a brief flash of pain as I render you unconscious...a knock they will ascribe to your having fallen in your blindness..." His footsteps began to move him towards me.

As I took another step backwards, my back collided with the wall by my desk. I jolted, one hand grasping blindly towards the solidity of the bureau and calling out, "No! Don't!"

Girard paused in his movements, no doubt surprised by my apparent fear; however, as he did so he realised his error the moment he heard the noise behind him and realised my words were not meant for him. He began to turn swiftly, but as I had indicated _she_ was already on the move, and she brought down my silver topped cane upon the Inspector's skull with a surprisingly loud blow.

Removing my glasses, I could but watch as the Inspector's gloved hands spasmed, the police officer's eyes glazing over before his knees buckled and he crumpled to the ground.

Jumping back, Miss Thurlow held the stick up again, her eyes wide from anxiety and the dawning realisation of what she'd done.

Rushing to the fallen Inspector's side, I turned him over and checked him. Finding him well and truly senseless, I searched him and found both the knife he had spoken of, his revolver, and the vial of morphine and needle intended for me. Tossing these implements away, I subsequently found his manacles and fastened his hands tight behind his back before standing up and accosting the man's assailant. "What the devil do you think you're doing? I told you to stay hidden! You could've been killed!"

"He...he was going to kill you!" she gasped, still staring at the prone man between us.

Once at her side, I took the cane from her, her senses returning somewhat as she relinquished the stick, and gradually turned her gaze upon me as another fact started to permeate her red-hazed brain. "You..." She pointed to the man and waved her hand. "You...you can see!" An excited expression lit upon her face. "You can _see_! That's wonderful!"

"Of course I can see!" I sighed impatiently, still aggrieved with her for disobeying me and putting herself in danger. "You suspected a trap, did you not? Did you honestly think I would leave myself open to being so vulnerable?" I tossed the cane to the couch to join the gathering assortment of vicious objects. "Girard never would've expected me to strike at him first in my supposed state. I would've taken him completely by surprise." Reaching into my dressing gown, I drew out the revolver I had purloined from Watson earlier and looked at it, shaking my head ruefully. "His key, his knife...his gun...all in one day. Watson _really_ should be more careful with his property."

"But, Sherlock, you can see!" Miss Thurlow's hand touched my arm as if to wake me to this realisation. It was inevitably an entirely different realisation that ended up grabbing her attention, her wide smile fading into a frown and her tone shifting to one of irked accusation. "You...you have been able to see all along! You weren't blind!"

"No...I was blind," I assured her. "Completely so…but I have not been so for three days now. Though not whole. When the bandages were removed, my sight _was _on the mend. I thought it more expedient not to mention it."

Her eyes widened and a rather aggrieved expression took hold of her. "You...thought_ not_ to mention it? I...we were all terribly worried about you...and you thought..._not_ to mention it?"

"Yes..." I replied, "that was unfortunate, I realise and I apologise for any discomfort I caused you, but it was somewhat inevitable. For as the bandages came off and I realised that my sight was in fact returning, an idea also dawned upon me." I led her to the door away from the fallen police inspector.

"As you know, I had hidden the fact that I was blind to aid in flushing our man out a little more into the open. It occurred to me that in tandem with the excellent work you did with the code, in revealing my blindness I might well be able to coax him straight to me to try and end the threat I was becoming to him."

"And by telling John and me about your recovery...well, we could have unintentionally let it slip...through tells. It was a good plan." She nodded, agreeing with me but unable to remove the intensely feminine look of wounded feelings from her visage.

I exhaled a little at the sight, knowing it had not been easy for her or any of those close to me to think me so damaged. "Yes...but it did not sit well with me," I assured her. "Especially having to dampen your high hopes each morning that I had improved and seeing your face when it seemed I had not. But had I not done as I did, then Mr. Buckle and I might not have flushed this snake from his hole so completely."

Her stiffened posture relaxed a little. "I must admit I am not happy that you kept this from me." She inhaled slowly before a tiny smile came to her lips, her eyes glinting at the plan as they flickered to the fallen man on the floor. "But I do understand why."

"Good..." I nodded, highly approving of her seeing beyond just our personal connection. "I know it is not easy for any woman to put aside her emotional instincts, and I am still somewhat peeved with you for your arguing with me earlier, but I too understand...and deeply appreciate why.

"You remain, however..." I continued, "the most infuriatingly obstinate woman. And taking me by surprise like that with your rapid emergence from the bedroom like some kind of Valkyrie in taffeta, you most certainly could have gotten yourself killed," I admonished her again before adding rather admiringly, "Even if it was quite the blow."

Her eyes may have dipped but her smile remained. "I apologise, Sherlock..." Her tone was sincere though her hand snuck into mine in that infuriatingly effective way women have of diverting one's attention from your anger. "I was under the false impression that you were in dire peril...and I should have listened." A frown again appeared on her face as her gaze, this time clearly puzzled, again met mine. "But Sherlock, _who_ is Mr. Buckle?"

"He is the Editor of _The Times_," I answered, raising her hand and patting it lightly. "A close acquaintance, a fine journalist, and a sympathetic soul...as well as being the man you know better as Mr. Phelps of the _Gazette_."

Her eyes widened again. "That...that was...a charade?" she breathed.

A small smile came to my lips. "Yes. This case was rather full of them, I realise. However, I needed a controlled story that played upon my blindness and my _desperate _attempt to continue my work, while failing to mention your presence, save as a nurse, and inserting some nonsense or other about my being emotionally fragile.

"And Mr. Buckle, having spent his apprenticeship in some less than salubrious news rooms, now does a fine turn with a rough accent. He does, however, send his deepest apologies for his dreadful manhandling of you the other day, but felt it suited the character and hopes most sincerely you will not hold it against him when next you meet."

"I...I..." she stumbled, a little flustered. "Well, of course I won't...since it was for the case."

"Excellent. Though I must say I feel the apology is warranted. While I am grateful to him and to the editor of the _Gazette_ for conspiring with me...I do feel laying hands upon you was overstepping the mark," I remarked with a sniff.

A tiny smile formed back on her lips at my declaration. "I am gratified for your words to him on my behalf."

I inclined my head towards her with a smile of my own. "And I, for all that you have done on my behalf this past while. Your dedication in all facets of our interactions has been most satisfying." Raising her hand, I placed a grateful kiss upon it.

Her gaze was soft and affectionate. "And I would do it again. Your well-being is very important to me."

I sobered a little at that and, ruminating, turned my gaze towards the unconscious man on the floor. "Yes...such affection drives us to all manner of things."

Her eyes followed mine. "Yes...I heard what you both spoke of...and who. Can anything be done for her? Her husband's dishonour will be hard enough to bear without her illness as well."

"If she is en route to Switzerland, he has probably given her funds to support herself and placed her in a clinic for treatment. She will likely not hear of it until well after her arrival; perhaps not even until she makes enquiries as to when he will join her," I answered quietly. "His years of service notwithstanding, it is likely he will hang for this...for letting his love for her go to far." I glanced up at her as I slowly released her hand.

"I sympathise and do understand his intentions..." she sighed, "but his choices were wrong. One life is never worth the cost of another."

"Perhaps..." said I, "but given a choice of his life or a loved one's, given your own actions this night...which would you choose?"

Her eyes dipped as she swallowed. "You know what I would choose...but I would hope it would not come to that."

"As would I...but such is the fearful side of love," I commented as I turned away and crossed back to the man on the floor before looking back at her. "Sit and rest. Lestrade will be here soon, and we will face a host of disbelieving questions."

"Perhaps," she suggested after a moment's digestion of my sombre words, "I should make some tea first. If it is to be a long night, it might be best to have something to fortify one's self, do you not think? Would you care for anything to eat while I am in the kitchen?"

I gazed up at her from where I kneeled, my lips curling up a little in amusement at her practical air. "Yes. Something that has not been pre-cut up into tiny pieces would be quite refreshing, I think. It is peculiar how Mrs. Hudson seems to equate one's being sightless with being a toddler."

A low laugh escaped her. "Of course," she agreed, her eyes twinkling as she left me to prepare for the Inspector and the long night ahead.

* * *

_**Authors' Note: Welcome back! Again, we apologise for any delay in posting...but with two WIPs...we have to split our time a bit more. (sigh) But we have started the next chapter (which will feature the return of old friends) and hope to have that ready in a couple weeks. Anyhoo, must get back to work...we hope you enjoyed this chapter and please feel free to let us know your thoughts. And a huge thank you to all that have read and/or reviewed! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	8. A Singular Gift

_**Chapter Eight: A Singular Gift**_

_30th July, 1890_

As the knife slid through the beautifully decorated cake, the clear bell-like sound of metal on crystal rang around the large sitting room of the Twin Birches on this balmy July night. "To Helen." Sir Nicholas Sotherby's baritone voice filled the room as he raised his glass of champagne in front of the now upstanding assembly. "A most happy birthday to our charming hostess."

"To Helen," came the chorusing answer, the formally attired guests of the small celebration saluting her where she stood alongside her impressively sized two tier cake -- a decided work of culinary art as designed by the Thurlow's amiable cook, Mrs. Reggie.

"Thank you all," Helen replied gratefully, a modest smile on her face even as she eyed the black and white cat impudently strolling into the room. Cats and food simply did not mix. Cats and parties even less so.

However, Mr. Boots seemed content to ignore the lure of cake in favour of simply ambling about the room in search of the perfect place to take his evening nap...evidently finding it on the lap of a rather surprised Mary Watson, who had just retaken her seat.

"I say!" came the booming jovial voice of Helen's cousin-in-law, Sir Roger Howley. "That's a fine figure of a feline there! Who does that fine chap belong to?" he asked, bending his exceedingly strapping figure down to examine him.

"This," replied the now highly amused Mrs. Watson, "is, I believe, Mr. Boots." She indicated the white boot shaped patches on his black paws. "And I _think_ he may be Matthew's cat." Mr. Boots merely raised his black and white head and peered at the gentleman before giving him a rumbling meow.

"Well, he's a good sized cat for a growing lad." Roger nodded his pale blond head approvingly, rubbing a large hand gently over the cat's ears. "If he's not to have a dog, a boy needs a strutting, confident sort of a cat...a good masculine animal, none of this namby pamby delicate Siamese business."

"Siamese are extremely loud creatures," his wife Sarah agreed from where she sat next to Mary on the couch. "My friend Mrs. Elsie Meadows has one, and she says it gives the most eerie yowls all day and night."

"Damn foreign breeds," Roger sniffed, straightening. "A good English cat...that's the ticket!" He saluted his own suggestion with his glass of wine and took another sip. "English, I say! You can do no better, whether it be cats, boats, or cheese!"

"Oh yes!" the matronly Martha Grufstred gushed from her seat nearby, where she had foregone the wine to continue on her favoured glass of dry sherry. "Though I'm quite a fan of brie!" She smiled amiably at the others. "Excellent cheese! Marvellous taste."

"And I am rather partial to that Edam…Dutch, I believe!" Watson added with a smile at the amiable woman, who was the wife of the Vice President of the Thurlow Foundation and good friend to both Helen and her mother.

She smiled back. "Oh yes...that one is quite tasty as well. Though Randolf is taken with Limburger...though I can't understand why. It's really is quite pungent. I simply won't have it out of the kitchen."

Nicholas resumed his seat beside his wife, Margaret. "And you'll forgive my lack of patriotism also, Roger, if I persevere with French wine. English wine lacks a certain…bouquet, flavour, body…in fact, you might say…existence!" he added with vague amusement.

Mary stroked the content and purring cat on her lap, listening vaguely to the conversation as she watched her friend finish cutting her first slice of the cake before surrendering the task to her butler.

She marvelled inwardly at the change in Helen since this time the previous year. Her heart had ached then to see her friend so unhappy but now...now she was blooming -- her eyes bright and radiating with happiness, her smile quick and dazzling. Indeed, she seemed to vibrate with an inner energy. _This_ is what love _should_ do to a person.

Even if the man responsible for it was not present. Mary sighed inwardly in resignation. It may be Helen's birthday, but Sherlock Holmes was still off buried in his work. In a way, she was fortunate her own John was with her tonight. Her lips pulled up in a smile as her eyes drifted over to her husband, the gallant doctor still contentedly discussing cheese with the immeasurably kind if occasionally silly older Mrs. Grufstred. Yes, she had been lucky. Lucky to find him...and even more so that he should love her as deeply as she him. And now...his eyes met hers and they shared a smile. Well, their news could wait. This was Helen's day.

Randolf Grufstred sighed and gazed affectionately at his wife across the room as she continued to lightly berate him for his fondness for food that smelled. "How often she forgets my Austrian antecedents," he said of her, while taking a plate with a slice of cake upon it. "My dear my parents virtually raised me on such 'pungent' cheeses, sausage...and garlic." He noticed Roger wince at the word. "The English antipathy to that herb is quite ridiculously virulent."

"I must say I developed quite a fondness for it myself," Watson agreed, sitting back, only gradually drawing his eyes away from his wife, his smile still on his face. "Between travel with the army to places where spices and herbs such as garlic are used frequently and my travels with Holmes through the continent, it has become quite flavoursome to me."

"Vile stuff." Roger shook his head. "Vile...perfectly good food ruined."

"Ah, but Sir Roger, it's quite good for the blood!" The white haired, sober Dr. Wiggins piped up from where he sat in conversation with his wife and Alice Thurlow.

"Riles up the blood more like." Roger took a seat by the empty fireplace. "No doubt explains why the French are always overreacting."

"An interesting theory, Roger." Margaret arched an eyebrow, flashing a quick smile at Helen as she joined the conversation. "Well, I quite enjoy garlic...and have developed quite a taste for that new Italian bistro in Kensington. Nicholas has been quite a darling to indulge me these last couple months." She leaned forward just a little, her bearing conspiratorial. "I hear it is a new favourite of Lord Wallingford."

"Hardly a reason to indulge," her husband sniffed disapprovingly at mention of his rather dubious fellow peer's name. "That man's tastes are most decidedly not to be followed."

Mrs. Wiggins, seated beside her friend Alice Thurlow, turned immediately in his direction, the gleam of gossip to be had in her eyes. "Indeed, Sir Nicholas?"

Margaret sighed. "It is not _those_ particular tastes I was referring to, my dear. However, sometimes it is simply in one's favour to be seen with the right people. So, I find it my personal duty to lend a more respectable air to the establishment, help the poor Wallingfords reclaim a little of their status." Her eyes twinkled with humour and mischief. "Besides...I adore the cuisine."

Helen covered her mouth to hide the wide smile on her lips as Mary chuckled softly, though she tried to appear busy petting the cat.

Nicholas sighed with a resigned air at his wife's impishness, his dark moustache twitching slightly. "As you say, my love."

"Well, we shall most certainly try this restaurant," Martha cut in, her eyes wide at the possible high end clientele she would meet. "Won't we, Randolf?"

Pausing to swallow a mouthful of his cake, which he was enjoying thoroughly, Randolf looked up and nodded. "Positively so, my dear...and perhaps we should encourage chef to try that spaghetti thing at home. The novelty of the shape of the food might amuse the children."

"I should think they would liken it to worms." Roger snorted in amusement. "It's what the dashed stuff looks like to me." On receiving a reproving glance from Sarah, he raised his blond eyebrows defensively. "Well, it does!"

"However did you fail to join the Foreign Office, Roger?" Nicholas enquired with a certain amount of wry acerbity. "Your progressive point of view would fit _so_ perfectly there." He glanced at his wife, the two of them exchanging humorous looks.

"Sarah," came the soft voice of Helen's mother Alice, penetrating even from across the room, "I hear you have been continuing with your piano...perhaps you would care to share a piece with us?"

Her cheeks flushing, the young doe-eyed woman appeared rather pleased. "Of course, Aunt Alice, I would be honoured to." Rising to her feet, she crossed smoothly to the grand piano by the open French windows.

Roger watched her proudly before beaming at Nicholas and Margaret, quite unaware of any chaffing at his expense by his fellow peer. "She's quite wonderful, don't you know. Could've been a concert pianist." He rocked a little on the balls of his feet. "Everyone in our social circle has said so at one time or another...in fact, William Edwards once suggested that she..." He stopped short, his blue eyes widening a little at the name that had passed his lips.

"Umm...play some Mozart, Sarah!" he called quickly, noting how still and uncomfortable his cousin-in-law had become, though she was quite admirably trying not to show it.

Taking a seat at the piano, Sarah smiled and gave him a quick nod before opening the keyboard and running over a few quick scales to familiarize herself with the instrument. Satisfied, she stretched her fingers and began, a soft enchanting piece lilting from the piano as she embarked upon the Romanza from Mozart's Piano Concerto Number 20.

Margaret glanced at her husband and both their eyes turned to Helen, whose entire being seemed to be focused upon the music. A clear sign that she was nothing of the sort. The noble woman looked back at Nicholas, but he merely gave her a slight shrug and turned his own attention to the music, leaving Margaret to remember that he had not been overly sympathetic to how Helen had conducted herself with the now departed Major Edwards.

Withholding a sigh, the dark haired woman watched her friend from the corner of her eye, noting the stiffness and knowing all too well that even now Helen felt great deal of guilt over what had happened between her and William. Perhaps it was just as well her current beau was absent, as his presence would have undoubtedly ratcheted the discomfort of that remark up several notches.

Mary, too, had noticed Helen's reaction to her former beau's name, but found her attention wandering as she listened contentedly to the music. Roger was quite correct...Sarah was excellent. Though Mary did find herself wishing for a more upbeat piece...the soft music combined with the lovely meal, the warmth of the evening, the purring cat upon her lap, and her already easily tiring condition hindering her quest to be a lively participant in the night's festivities.

As the piece progressed, Watson turned to glance at his wife to convey his enjoyment of the music, but on catching her expression, cocked his head a little in askance only to get a tired but reassuring smile in reply.

Helen, relaxing at last after her conscience had been unexpectedly pricked, turned her head slightly to notice John's silent commune with his wife, and from there Mary's expression. As the sweet final notes of Sarah's short recital came to a close, spontaneous applause broke from all those present, and once she had played her part in it, Helen moved closer to her friend. "Is everything all right?" she enquired softly, so as not to disturb the others as they talked and congratulated Sarah.

Mary nodded. "Yes...I'm just a little tired. The excellent combination of good food, soft happy cats, and well-played music."

Helen gazed at her in concern. "Yes...but you hardly ate at dinner," she pointed out with a slight frown. "Are you sure you are well?"

Mary patted her friend's arm reassuringly. "I promise that I am well. My digestion is being somewhat precocious tonight. Just something I shall have to get used to, I fear."

Helen's brow furrowed even more. "Get used to? Why would you..." The words dried on her lips, and a minute later the true cause of her dear friend's symptoms dawned on her. Grasping the blonde woman's hands, she breathed, "Oh Mary, I am so happy for you! When? Is there anything I can do?"

Squeezing Helen's hands in return, Mary quietly beamed and shook her head. "Not at the moment, no...and I think in the middle of January."

Watson rose from his seat and moved to stand before the two women. "Indeed you can do something," he contradicted his wife gently. "Convince her she must take good care of herself. Rest is paramount."

Helen nodded with utmost seriousness, remembering the Watsons' ill fortune the previous year. "Of course," she agreed adamantly. "I shall be glad to help out in any way so that you do not need to exert yourself, Mary."

"That is very good of you, Helen, but I am capable of still..." she began.

"...taking up your friend's most kind and generous offer with good grace and gratitude," her husband interjected firmly before turning to the auburn haired woman. "Thank you indeed, Helen; we would be most glad of your assistance."

Their hostess nodded, though she could see Mary give her husband a loving huff. "Shall I call in a couple of days?"

Realising she was completely defeated, Mary smiled warmly at her friend and nodded. "That would be lovely, thank you."

"What are you all conspiring about over here?" an exaggeratedly narrow-eyed Margaret enquired before her eyes widened. "Is this another one of your delicious cases with Mr. Holmes, Helen? Shame on you for keeping me from such entertainment!" she chastised her lightly with a grin.

The young woman shook her head and smiled. "I'm afraid I am not aware of any recent cases," Helen replied, glancing at the doctor. "None that you are not already aware of at least, Maggie."

Nicholas followed his wife's gaze. "And while we are upon that subject...where is the man in question this evening?"

Watson harrumphed softly as the discussion about who should perform for the group next intensified beyond them. Glancing briefly at Helen, he looked down at his feet before addressing Nicholas. "He...had some work on a case to finish up, a few loose ends. He was most apologetic about missing the evening," he reiterated for their hostess's sake.

Putting a good face on it, Helen gave a small smile of confirmation. "Indeed," she agreed. "Though that is to be expected when one is in a relationship with a detective."

Margaret smiled consolingly at her friend. "Well, I am sure he'll make it up to you."

"Quite," Mary agreed, patting the auburn-haired woman's hand.

"Helen!" Roger called from across the room. "Helen! Let us have an offering from the birthday girl!"

The young woman blinked. "Offering? Oh...well, I do not play the piano very well anymore, Roger. Certainly nowhere near accomplished enough to follow Sarah! I haven't played in years..."

"Well then..." He gesticulated to her to join them. "A song perhaps, while Sarah accompanies you! Or a recitation!"

Helen's cheeks pinked. "Oh...I'm not a very skilled singer...and I have nothing prepared to recite..."

"Oh come now, Helen, we must have something from the birthday girl!" Margaret encouraged her. "What about a story? Tell them about your most recent adventure with Mr. Holmes and how you took up that cane and..."

"Margaret!" Nicholas laid a hand on her shoulder and restrained his wife, whose arm was raised in mid re-enactment of the case of the crushing cane. "_Please_..." he whispered, his gaze demanding a little restraint of her own.

Alice's amber eyes watched the proceedings in amusement. "Some Shakespeare perhaps, Helen?" she suggested quietly, remembering for a moment the days when her daughter's quiet readings were an immense comfort to her and on some of the worst days, all that kept her grounded in reality. "You were always rather good at reciting his sonnets."

"Yes!" Margaret changed in mid-tack, mostly to avoid her husband's continuing frown at her over-exuberance about such a violent topic. "You were _awfully_ good at them in school...and you do have such a sweet speaking voice."

Glancing around at the sea of eager, expectant faces, Helen rose to her feet, her hands fumbling nervously as she smoothed her pale baby blue summer evening gown. "Well, perhaps one or two..." she acquiesced.

"Excellent!" Roger boomed and began to applaud, the others all joining in politely as they retook their seats.

Helen made her way to the piano, feeling far more nervous in front of her friends than in front of the board at one of Balfour and Thurlow's bi-weekly meetings. Scanning her memory for one of her favourites and taking a deep breath, she began, her voice melodic and smooth as the words fell from her lips.

_When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes  
I all alone beweep my outcast state,  
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,  
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,  
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,  
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,  
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,  
With what I most enjoy contented least;  
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,  
Haply I think on thee… _

There was a minute pause as she took a breath, only for it to be filled by a deep male voice coming from behind her on the veranda. Those behind her bore witness to her absent beau, replete in dress suit, as he stepped towards the open French doors, the words of Shakespeare tripping easily from his mouth.

…_and then my state,  
Like to the lark at break of day arising   
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;  
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings  
That then I scorn to change my state with kings._

He finished quietly with the merest whisper of a smile about his lips before he inclined his head a little to her. "Good evening, Helen. Forgive my tardiness."

Her expression was one of quiet joy as she crossed over to meet him at the doors. "No apologies necessary," she replied. "I am most pleased you could attend after all."

"Upon finding my work finished sooner than expected, I could not in good conscience do otherwise...nor would I have wished to," he murmured, allowing her to take his arm and lead him into the room. "Good evening," he greeted her other guests as a chorus of responses returned to him.

"Better late than never, eh Holmes?" Roger beamed. "And quite the entrance! A lover of the Bard, eh? Found it useful for charming the ladies, have you?" he added with a wink.

Holmes lips tugged barely upwards in what was more of a grimace than a smile. "In point of fact, I have little use for poetry for any purpose. I retained the information during the course of a case involving a brutal murderer who used Shakespearean quotes as clues to the identity and location of his intended victims.

"As a rule I try to dispel extraneous knowledge to make way for something of more use, but the lyrical quality of things such as poetry and Elizabethan prose tend to cleave to the brain somewhat," he replied, nodding politely to Mrs. Thurlow.

The ebullient, arts-loving Roger stared at him dumb struck, a rarity at the best of times. His silence was, however, short-lived. "Ah…" His smile returned in full force. "Shame you missed the dinner, capital fare...capital!"

"I am sure," Holmes answered. "Still, perhaps a little of that rather excellent looking cake would not go amiss?" he enquired of the birthday cake that still stood in the middle of the room, glancing at the woman upon his arm.

She nodded with a smile. "Of course," she agreed, slipping her hand from his arm to cut him a slice, then pausing only for a moment to enquire, "Would you care for anything else to eat as well? I am sure we can make you a plate..."

"Perhaps at supper?" he suggested. "I have no wish to disturb the kitchen staff at the moment...as I passed upon my surreptitious way to enter here, I glanced in upon them through the window. They and your brothers appeared to be enjoying quite the game of Snap." His lips twitched upwards.

"Those rascals should be in bed!" she breathed indignantly before laughing. "Then at least let Goodwin get you a drink," she insisted, turning back around to the table to cut him a large slice of cake.

He picked up a flute of champagne from the tray. "This will do quite nicely, thank you," he assured her. Glancing across the room, he met the gaze of Watson, who frowned questioningly. Holmes nodded once, his eyes grave, causing Watson to exhale slowly before retaking his seat.

Turning back with a small plate laden with cake and fork, Helen smiled up at her beau. "It's quite tasty..." she told him with no small amount of enthusiasm before leaning a little closer, her voice dropping in tandem, "and chocolate."

A dark eyebrow arched slightly as he took the plate from her. "Considering your peculiarly feminine predilection towards that substance, I would expect nothing less."

Her eyes sparkled up at him before she turned to take a glass of champagne. "Would you care to take a seat?"

With a quiet nod of his head, he indicated for her to take the seat of her choice before he did so. Reclaiming her seat next to Mary, Helen took a sip of her champagne.

"No, Roger..." Nicholas was saying firmly as Holmes sat down near his sweetheart, "I most certainly do _not_ know 'My Old Man Said Follow The Van.'"

"Well, I can..." Roger began.

"_So_, _Mr. Holmes_..." Nicholas addressed him loudly, turning his head quickly away from the blond head of Roger, "anything of note keep you from our company?"

The detective glanced towards him but did not actually meet the peer's eyes, his own returning to the plate of cake in front of him. "Merely the routine but essential work the police require when closing certain cases. Nothing remotely of interest to anyone, I can assure you, Sir Nicholas."

Mary smiled at her husband's friend. "Well, it is good to see you again as always, Sherlock. You must come to dinner this next week. You and Helen both."

"Of course," he agreed. "Providing we are both free that evening."

Helen nodded, a pleased smile on her lips. "I shall make a point of it. Perhaps we can coordinate schedules when I visit in a couple of days?" she addressed her friend.

Mary glanced up at her husband, still a little irked about being fussed over so, and inclined her head. "That sounds most sensible."

"I shall talk with Cook about the menu for the evening," Watson added, letting his wife know that 'sensible' included her not fussing around the kitchen.

Mary's mouth pursed slightly. "Of course...but I do not see what possible stress I can be under fixing a menu."

"It is not the fixing of the menu, it is what accompanies it...the examining of ingredients, the constant bustling back and forth and consulting with Cook to see that she is capable of what you have laid before her, the alarmed discussion one hour before the dinner is due to be cooked wherein Cook placates you that the choices are quite sound and all will be well..." her husband replied nonchalantly.

From where he sat, Nicholas lowered his head and raised his hand to his black moustache to cover a smile. Margaret looked down to hide her own smile before her head popped straight back up again with her usual bright and curious expression. "Why can you not be under stress, Mary dear? Oh my…are you unwell?" Her tone shifted to one of genuine concern.

"No, no..." Watson answered quickly, unwilling to make any announcement either so early or on the date of another's celebration. "Merely to avoid aggravating a mild muscular complaint, nothing at all serious. The heat of the kitchen and excessive movement exacerbate it."

"Mr. Holmes, 'You'll Miss Lots of Fun When You're Married!'" Roger called across from where he was standing by the piano.

Holmes almost choked on the mouthful of cake in his mouth and Helen spluttered on her champagne as her cousin reprovingly gasped out, "Roger!"

Roger gazed around the now deathly silent room and all the eyes upon him. "It's…it's a song..." he explained hesitantly. "A new one...by that American Sousa chap. Jolly little ditty. Thought perhaps with Mr. Holmes being a musical sort..."

A light snort came from the direction of Watson, followed by a chortle. "Forgive me." He held his hand up in apology before he started to chuckle in earnest. "You thought...you thought that...that Holmes..." he guffawed, "that _Holmes_ might sing?"

"Really Watson..." his friend admonished lightly despite starting to grin himself at his comrade in arms as the doctor's laughter grew, "it's not that farfetched a suggestion."

"So you will?" Roger leapt upon that eagerly.

Holmes sobered in an instant. "Most certainly _not_!" he said wide-eyed as Watson collapsed into convulsions. The expression on Holmes's face combined with the helpless peals coming from the doctor were too much for even the ladies to endure, and they too dissolved into gales of laughter, Helen laughing so hard tears came to her eyes.

Roger sniffed at the mirth around him. "It was only a suggestion..." he murmured, turning back to the sheet music on the piano.

"I know!" Martha Grufstred piped up from where she was sitting with Alice. "Why do we not play a game? Charades is always rather enjoyable at parties." She gazed about at the others with an excited smile on her lips.

"Oh yes!" Mrs. Wiggins agreed with a nod. "Tremendously so!"

Roger looked up brightly, nodding, his spirits instantly restored. "It can be quite the lark."

Sarah smiled at her husband. "It has been while since we've played. It may be quite fun."

Watson sat up and exchanged smiles with his wife even as he wiped his eyes clear of the tears of laughter still in them. "Yes, why not," he agreed.

Helen tried her best not to look pained at the thought. She'd never really enjoyed charades, but she couldn't think of the appropriate excuse to beg out of it, for it was her party after all.

"Perhaps," Holmes said in a rather stiff voice, "if you don't mind, Helen, I shall avail myself of that plate after all." He rose up from his seat and held his hand out to her. "I find myself rather peckish all of a sudden. This excellent cake has whetted my appetite."

Repressing the sigh of relief, she took his hand and smoothly rose to her feet. "Of course," she agreed, smiling gratefully at him. "I am sure Andrew and Matthew would love to say hello before I send them off to bed." Turning to her guests, she gave them all an apologetic smile. "Pray, do continue; we shall return directly."

As the detective led her towards the door, Nicholas's muttered imprecation of "lucky blighter" was distinctly audible to the departing duo, as was the hiss that immediately followed it when his wife tactfully elbowed him in the ribs.

Stepping out into the hallway, Holmes stopped to gaze down at Helen. "A narrow escape. I had not realised birthday parties were so hazardous to one's decorum."

Laughing softly, she squeezed his arm. "Only at certain ones. God bless Roger though, he does try." She shook her head fondly. "Would you still like something to eat? I should send the boys back to bed."

"I confess my hunger to be a complete fabrication; however, to keep our cover story intact I shall gladly accompany you to the kitchen to see the boys."

With an inclination of her head, they headed down the long hallway through the house until they reached the door to the kitchens, the sounds of mirth clearly reverberating through the doorway.

"Watch 'im now...watch 'im..." Mr. Reggie's voice came through the wood. "He's a gettin' ready to pounce, mark my words!"

The sound of two boys giggling nervously punctuated the air.

"Don't you mind him, Master Matthew," Mrs. Reggie encouraged. "You just concentrate on your game."

"Oww!" Mr. Reggie yelped and the boys giggled again.

"What did you want to go and do that fer?" he complained in a pouty voice.

"Just to put manners on you, you old coot," his wife replied.

"It will take considerably more than one poke in the arm to achieve that," remarked Goodwin dryly.

The boys giggled again. "Snap!" yelled Matthew.

"Awwww!" his brother moaned. "Goodwin, you put me off!"

"My apologies, Master Andrew," Goodwin said with all the sincerity of a tea towel.

Exchanging a very amused look with her beau, Helen opened the door as silently as she could, the sight bringing a smile to her lips.

The two boys, flanked by Mr. and Mrs. Reggie respectively, looked up from the oaken kitchen table where they sat facing one another, a pile of cards rather unevenly divided between them, Matthew's haul considerably more than his brother's. Not an entirely surprising state of events given that Andrew's attention was so easily diverted. On seeing Helen, however, their twin expressions shifted into ones of sheepish guilt. Especially since both of them had been sent to bed nearly an hour and a half previously.

"Evenin', miss." Mr. Reggie stood up with his wife. "Hope you're havin' a pleasant birthday."

"Most pleasant," she agreed with a smile, her gaze shifting to his wife. "And thank you for the most scrumptious birthday cake, Mrs. Reggie. It has been appreciated by all quite thoroughly this evening."

The cook's smile was wide as she flushed at the praise. "Twas a pleasure, it was, miss," she replied. "And a very happy birthday to you and many more."

Andrew, though, was beaming at his sister's beau. "Good Evening, Mr. Holmes! It's jolly good to see you! Are coming in to play snap as well?"

"I fear not, though the thought is tempting in the extreme. But I believe your sister has other plans for you," he replied regretfully.

Matthew gave a heavy sigh. "I _know_...we are to return to bed immediately, and you shall speak to us in the morning about sneaking out of bed," he pre-empted his sister.

Her eyebrow slowly arched. "Well, we shall see...I may be a tad lenient if you both are in bed and lights out by the time Goodwin checks on you in five minutes." She paused, glancing at the clock on top of the mantle. "Starting now."

Grabbing his cards, Matthew shoved them as best he could into order and clutched them to his chest before glaring at his brother to so the same. "Come on!" he hissed.

Andrew leapt to his feet, hurriedly grasping his cards as well, though his threatened to tumble to the floor should he even breathe wrongly. Crossing quickly to his sister, he dutifully kissed her cheek and managed a fumbling handshake with the detective. "Good night, Helen! Good night, Mr. Holmes. You will come back for a longer visit, I hope!" There was a decidedly cheeky grin on his lips.

"I shall certainly endeavour to do so, Andrew." The tall man nodded at the boy with a smile.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes...Goodnight, Helen." Matthew kissed his sister's cheek quickly. "And a happy birthday, we do hope you liked our present."

"Yes, I did. The embroidery pattern was quite lovely, and I look forward to sampling the box of chocolates you gave me. I was most impressed to see that only two bites were missing this time!" she replied, her eyes twinkling at the pair of them fondly. "Now...off to bed."

Bidding the butler, the cook, and Mr. Reggie a goodnight, Andrew scampered out the door, his footsteps echoing as he ran down the hall, causing Helen to sigh wearily.

"Well, Helen," Matthew sighed again and looked up at her with slight admonishment as his brother brazenly broke her no running rule, "you_ did_ only give us five minutes. Goodnight, Goodwin, Mr. Reggie, Mrs. Reggie!" he called and scampered after his brother.

Shaking her head, she turned to the butler. "Would you be so kind to check on them in five minutes, Goodwin?"

"Of course, miss," the butler replied before glancing between the couple. "Can we be of any service in the meantime?" he enquired.

"No, thank you..." Holmes replied after Helen looked to him, "but that door…" He pointed to the wood and glass paned door on the far side of the kitchen. "That leads out by the side of the veranda at the back of the house, does it not?"

"Indeed, sir," Goodwin agreed with a nod.

"Is it unlocked?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent..." Moving across to the door, Holmes opened it and turned back to Helen, his hand's sweep indicating her exit into the evening, the air filled with laughter and shouts from the party atop the veranda.

Smiling widely, she bid the trio of servants a good night and headed out into the night.

Drawing his cigarette case from his dinner jacket before he pointed to the torch lit pathway that led towards the rear garden and the woods, he asked, "What do you feel our chances might be to successfully bypass the veranda for that pathway...without attracting the attention of your guests?" His cigarette extracted, he lit a match against the rough stone of the building.

Helen shook her head and motioned to the wide stone steps. "I believe they are too caught up to notice," she reflected, bestowing another smile on him and enjoying the fact that he was here with her on her birthday.

They had been together for seven months, and the time had simply flown by. She truly felt she could hardly be happier. He had been the perfect gentleman, attentive and considerate, but still formal and restrained. She had to admit part of her wished he would show some outward sign of affection, but knew it simply was not his way...and she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved her. For the ways he showed his affection spoke volumes -- the way he would look at her sometimes...the way he'd smile just a little wider when they were alone or heavily debating a topic...the way he squeezed her hand during a concert when the music moved them both just so.

Casting another look towards the sound of her guests, she found she was thankful for her family and friends, especially on her special day, but at this moment she was relishing the chance to be with him alone.

"Very well." He gestured once more towards the torch lit path, cigarette in hand, before offering her his other arm. "It is a warm night. Perhaps a stroll to the pond?" he suggested.

"Sounds wonderful," she replied, sliding her arm through his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Putting his cigarette to his lips and blowing out a long trail of smoke, he took her past the veranda's stone steps to the paved path meandering through the exotic pagoda style free-standing torches. Following their fiery trail, the couple unhurriedly made for the small wood, at the heart of which lay a clearing with a picturesque pond which on a warm breathless night like tonight would be, he was sure, quite like a reflecting pool. He drew her arm closer to him, enjoying her company in private while he looked around. "It certainly is a clement evening," he observed.

"Yes, the weather has been most accommodating," she mused, her eyes flickering over to him and reflecting flecks of orange light in their grey depths. "How has it been in London? Not too hot, I trust?"

"Close and clammy..." he replied. "The sale of fans have skyrocketed, I believe...one is almost tempted to shock and parade around in one's shirt sleeves."

She chuckled quietly and gazed up at him more fully, her eyes dancing. "Yes, well...we can't have that," she teased before her tone grew softer and more serious. "I am truly pleased you were able to come tonight. I have not seen much of you this last month."

"Unfortunate, I know, but as I said inside..." he replied, drawing deeply on his Woodbine, "small things conspire to keep me busy."

"Nothing too irksome, I hope," she hedged, squeezing his arm a little.

"No," he said quietly, "not irksome."

A light frown crossed her brow. His expression was rather remote and that was not like him, unless he was pondering a case...and if he was doing that, he certainly would not be here. "What is it?" she coaxed, her voice soft and soothing.

Gazing down upon the path they trod, he drew again upon his cigarette, raising his head to blow a long stream of smoke into the boughs of the trees above them. "I came in contact yesterday with Mrs. Girard," he said softly as he inhaled once more.

Helen's eyes widened just a little, her soft exhale one of sympathy for the unfortunate woman. "Has she returned to England then?"

"Yes," he answered. "I facilitated her return last night…and her departure, before I came here, to a better sanatorium in the United States…albeit under false pretences. Once I had discovered her whereabouts, I summoned her back from Austria to Calais by telegram. She arrived there two days ago, where I met with her. As I had taken the precaution of ensuring her return by pretending to be her husband within the telegram, it came as a shock to her that I was not him when we met."

"I should think it would have been," Helen agreed, a wave of sympathy washing over her at the other woman's plight. "Did you break the news to her of her husband's crimes?"

"I hardly went through all that for any other reason, Helen," he said with a sigh.

Her cheeks flushed and she looked down in embarrassment. "I only meant that she may have been too unwell to upset," she explained softly. Glancing up at him, she asked after a moment of silence, "And how did she take the news? Is she all right?"

"No," he answered seriously. "She is not at all well, not in body nor now in spirit. After this news and her visit to her husband behind bars, unless Watson's expectations of this sanatorium are lived up to, I do not expect her to live out the year." He looked away. "It was akin to bringing a death sentence upon her. One that will act as a precursor to her husband's."

A hand flew to her lips even as she gasped, her large grey eyes shining in sadness. Swallowing, she tried regain some composure, but her heart ached for the woman. "Does she have someone with her? Some family she can turn to so she is not alone in her grief?"

"I should not have brought this up." He observed her reaction. "This not a suitable subject for your day of celebration," he replied, the lack of an answer all too telling.

She shook her head, her mind already spinning with thoughts about some way she could help. "No...I am glad you told me. I shall make enquiries tomorrow," she stated firmly.

"Enquiries? As to her family?" His gaze grew curious.

"Family...friends," she agreed with a nod. "And if there is anything she requires so that she can at least be comfortable. No one should have this foisted on them at the end of their lives, nor die alone."

A small smile formed on his lips. "You are a kind woman, Helen Thurlow. But you need not worry yourself...Watson began that search when I went to Calais to tell her of what had happened with her husband and our plans to remove her from the clutches of the European press also seeking her. Watson knows her new destination and will inform, or will have informed, those he has found where they should go, as well as donating the reward money we received for Girard's capture to their upkeep during her stay abroad."

"Then I shall hope his search is fruitful...but if you or he should require my help..." She gazed up earnestly at him.

"You may rest assured we shall call upon you." He nodded as the pond broke into view through the trees, still and black as expected...but with the orb of the full July moon shining on it even from this distance.

"But let us put this aside for tonight. It is not a topic I should have raised. There is little point in my endeavouring to join in your festivities only to end them by doing so. How have you enjoyed your day?"

With a slow, quiet inhale to try and clear her thoughts, she gave him a soft smile. "Quite a lot actually...though I had to write several work related letters this morning." She wrinkled her nose. "Alas…the import and export business does not simply take a holiday for one's birthday," she joked. "Though this afternoon, my brothers and I had a lovely visit with the Days while Mother readied the house for the party tonight." Glancing up at him once more, she added, "Emily asked after you. She hopes you are well."

He smiled, glad to be reminded of one individual in a case of his who had prospered after its end. "You may tell her that I am, and I hope she will remain always as brave a girl as she has been thus far." His eyes moved to Helen's ears and the small gold and emerald earrings that he had given her at Christmas that had been fashioned from Emily's gift. "And as generous." His hand touched the earring nearest him. "They do suit you well."

"Thank you," she replied, her eyes meeting his and her pleased smile lighting her face with a soft glow.

They arrived at the edge of the clearing...the strong moonlight bathing it in silver, giving the landscape an ethereal aspect. He nodded approvingly. "A place where a man might lose himself in thought and the appreciation of nature's hand."

She gazed out into the scenery and found herself in complete agreement. "It_ is_ a most beautiful scene," she agreed. "Would you like to sit for a while?"

"We should have brought a rug. Your dress will be marked," he noted, reaching into his dress coat and removing something unseen before drawing off his coat and laying it on the ground by an oak so that they could sit side by side. "There."

She frowned slightly with concern. "What about your jacket?" she asked.

"A man's attire is almost expected to be ruined during a walk, especially a man like myself." He gave her a quick smile. "In any case, I have been looking for an excuse to remove it all evening." He glanced down at his shirt sleeves. "The relief against the heat is most welcome."

She smiled softly in return. "Well then, as one of my chief responsibilities as hostess is to see to the comfort of my guests, how can I deny it to you?" she replied, sitting down carefully to ensure both propriety and modesty.

After taking in the argent tranquillity that surrounded them, he took a seat down beside her. A moment of silence later, he rather unceremoniously handed her what he had previously taken out of his coat. "A small gift," he said quietly, staring straight ahead as his hand passed her the wrapped item.

Her eyes widened slightly as he pushed the parcel into her hands before a large smile formed over her face at the gesture. Gazing at the package for a moment, she carefully turned it in her hands, trying to guess what it could be before sliding the tied ribbons off and removing the paper.

What lay inside made her breath catch in her throat, and opening the book with slightly shaking hands, she found her suspicions were confirmed...a first edition -- a first edition of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens...her favourite book. It was something she had mentioned to him only once as his interest in literature was not at all keen, and to find that he had remembered such a long ago stated fact touched her deeply more than words could express.

"Thank you," she breathed, hardly able to contain her emotions and before she could stop herself, leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on his cheek, blushing a little as she pulled away. "Even after all this time, you remembered," she whispered. "I will treasure it always."

Taken rather unawares by her spontaneous and intimate physical expression of gratitude, he barely restrained himself from reaching up to touch the spot her lips had seared with their touch. His cheek still tingling, he watched her as she turned the book over in her hands, her fingers running over the smooth brown leather-bound lines of it.

Her excitement was palpable and the happiness shone in her face. It illuminated her almost as well as the moonlight, the silver light augmenting her innate warmth and lending her the same empyrean air as their surrounds. And as she looked up at him again, readying to speak again or ask some question, he found himself pre-empting it by allowing his fingers to brush her cheeks, the unexpected touch silencing her. He studied her intently, an almost curious expression on his face, before he leaned forward and with any further hesitation or thought upon his part…brushed his lips over hers.

Her eyes widened in surprise, her hands reflexively dropping the book as her whole body reacted to the shock of his intimate gesture. But when he didn't pull away, she found herself sinking into the embrace. The gentle pressure of his kiss laid her back against the tree, his lips mingling softly with hers, and her arms slowly wrapped themselves around his neck, every part of her tingling as if her senses had just been brought to life.

Forces stronger than logic and reasoning took a fuller hold of him as she drew him closer, the feel of her in his arms and the sweet scent of her skin enticing him to inhale deeply. Fingertips stroked and danced over the nape of his neck and in their tender cadence, he lost track of time, until finally under the song of a nightingale, he inhaled softly, his lips brushing hers one final time as his rational brain began to operate once more.

As he drew back from her gradually, his breathing was just a little quicker than before, his demeanour warm as he regarded her and far more relaxed than he had ever envisioned he might be in those exceedingly rare moments when he had even allowed himself to contemplate a moment like this. The backs of his fingers brushed her cheek twice more before he broke the silence with a gentle murmur. "Happy Birthday, Helen."

She stared at him, lips parted and arms still about his neck, as her brain tried feverishly to reconnect with the rest of her. After a moment, she nodded and swallowed lightly. "Thank you," she breathed, wanting to say so much more but unable to find the right words.

His fingers found a curl of her hair by the side of her face, tangling it softly about them. "You are most welcome. Read it in good health."

It took a moment for her to remember to what he was referring, her eyes straying to his thin but soft and pliant lips before she forced them back to the book now lying in her lap. "I will," she replied, her voice a mite more husky than she expected. Blushing and pulling her arms back slowly, she looked away towards the placid lake, her eyes closing in a bid to settle her excited nerves.

Struck again by her silvered features, his eyes swept over them as she appeared seemingly in repose. "_Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen._" He breathed Oberon's words without thought.

Her head turned back to him, her eyes slowly opening, her nose brushing his, before of her own accord her lips again found his, exhaling softly as she sank into him once more.

His arms tightened around her, drawing her close to him, even as his fingers stroked the curve of her spine through her dress. And when the kiss ended, he drew back from her and regarded her once more. "You are..." He frowned trying to get past his inability to articulate his own feelings. But in the end, all he could do was shake his head slowly and restate with all the intensity and warmth within him. "_You are_."

Her lips pulled into a sweet and plainly adoring smile, her gaze washing over his face as she slowly stroked his cheek before he drew her into the crook of his arm and they settled back to gaze out on the warm, silver world around them.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Well there you have it! All bets must have been entered and now any one with winning guesses can be paid. (snicker) But not to fear, the story is not yet over...in fact we're only about a little over half way through. Thank you all to everyone who has read and/or reviewed. We appreciate all your comments, thoughts, and support. Chapter Nine is in the works and should...baring Darth Real Life...be out in a couple of weeks. Until then, enjoy and please feel free to let us know what you think. Hugs! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_

_**Addendum -- thank you to Mugglemin for pointing out my own personal blunder on a certain Lord...it has now been corrected. (sighs and headdesks repeatedly) **_


	9. Turning Point

**_Chapter Nine: Turning Point _**

_22nd August, 1890_

Mrs. Hudson, her arms near full to overflowing with grocery parcels, moved gingerly to place her key in the door to 221b only to start in alarm when a hansom cab clattered onto Baker Street at an alarming pace. While startled people up and down the quiet street stopped to stare at the driver's reckless behaviour, Mrs. Hudson briefly closed her eyes as the cab, almost inevitably, veered towards the kerb, geared to pull up short beside her. There was no need to look as she turned and opened the door, standing back just in time for Holmes, cane in one hand and bag in the other, to emerge from the carriage and dash past her up the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson. Just back. No time to talk, running late. Making for Trafalgar Square and the National Art Gallery. A Thurlow Foundation event. Must change. I would appreciate some tea!" The door to his rooms opened and slammed shut quickly as Mrs. Hudson put down her parcels and closed the door with a long suffering sigh.

Disrobing rapidly, Holmes washed and turned to finding himself something suitable for the showing and dinner afterwards. Knowing he had exactly ten minutes to dress, groom, find a cab, and get to Trafalgar Square, he slipped foursquarely into temporary clothing blindness -- a state of affairs where he could see absolutely nothing he wanted. His dress suits, his shoes, his shirts...nothing seemed to be where they should be.

Emerging from the kitchen with her tray, the tea service neatly laid out, Mrs. Hudson began to climb the stairs while accosted by the sound of Holmes bellowing, "Mrs. Hudson! Where the devil are my clean shirts...and _who_ moved my collars?"

His landlady paused on the landing and inhaled softly. Undoubtedly pleased that her unofficial charge had begun to build a life beyond work for himself, there was also no doubt in her mind that this new social calendar set that thoroughbred brain of his on edge.

"Your shirts are to the left of your suits, Mr. Holmes." She wearily recommenced her climbing. "And your collars are in third drawer down in your dresser…exactly where they have always been."

"Ah...where are my...?"

"Second drawer to your left in the wardrobe, Mr. Holmes."

"Mrs. Hudson, you are a saint!" he called as she entered the room.

Putting down the tray, she smiled ruefully while muttering to herself, "The patience of one would be most welcome."

Holmes emerged from his bedroom in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, his eyes lighting on seeing the tea. "Ah excellent, Mrs. Hudson. My mouth is as parched as the Gobi itself. The tea they serve on the railway these days is an absolute disgrace."

Taking his tea and adding milk, he drank the beverage as swiftly as he dared, his brow creasing. "Mrs. Hudson, would you be so good as to fetch me a cab? Preferably one with Pegasus himself drawing it. I have to somehow get across the city in two minutes flat."

Despite herself, Mrs. Hudson chuckled and nodded as she left. "I'll see what I can do, Mr. Holmes!" Her smile only grew wider as she heard him start to hum loudly to himself.

Five minutes later, a second cab careened through the streets of London, slaloming through Mayfair towards Regent Street, into Piccadilly Circus and on to the Haymarket and Pall Mall before finally reaching Trafalgar. Throwing the cabbie a ten shilling note, Holmes made for the steps of the art gallery.

Late. As usual.

* * *

Helen sipped on a glass of champagne as she chatted amiably with Randolf Grufstred and his wife Martha, refraining from glancing at a clock or asking the time. Having done so ten minutes earlier, it would be rather conspicuous that she was waiting for someone, and overeagerness was never becoming. Though that was precisely what she was. She had not thought that she could ever anticipate her beau's arrival more than she had these past months, but un-maidenly as it might be, ever since her birthday when things between them had taken a more romantic turn, she had fairly bubbled while awaiting his every appearance. Appearances that had been sadly few and far between since her birthday. 

Biting back her impatience, she endeavoured to keep her attention on the Grufstred's recounting of their purchase of a racehorse, and failed utterly. Perhaps the afters of his latest case had detained him? Perhaps he would not be attending at all? No...he'd have telegrammed. As cavalier as he was about such events, he knew it was important to her that he be there, and so he would have made some effort to let her know.

Holmes's long legs took the granite staircase before him two at a time and after taking a sharp left, he strode along the portrait lined corridor, the sound of his footsteps reverberating around the great lofted ceilings. On entering the large private gallery at pace, he neatly scooped a glass of champagne from the tray of a waiter and looked around, nodding politely at a couple of startled socialites who had been a little unsettled by the sheer speed of his entry.

Helen glanced up at the sudden murmurs and valiantly repressed her smile. Nodding politely at Mrs. Grufstred's comments on her gown, she caught Holmes's eye and quirked a mildly reproving eyebrow at him.

His lips twitched slightly while he moved casually through the crowd in an indirect manner, pausing to glance at some of the portraiture on show. Finally, as if only just seeing her, he took advantage of a momentary lull in her conversation with the Grufstreds to slip in beside her. "Mr. Grufstred, Mrs. Grufstred…Miss Thurlow." He inclined his head and held out his hand. "My apologies for my delay."

She lowered the glass from her lips and turned to face him, her features carefully controlled though her eyes danced. "Mr. Holmes, I would hardly dare to expect otherwise," she returned, sliding her hand into his as she mischievously chaffed him.

Bowing over her hand, Holmes looked up at her. "Then I am glad not to disappoint your expectations of me." Lowering his gaze, he let his lips brush lightly over her gloved knuckles. A very pale pink flush spread over her cheeks, her lips parting ever so slightly as sparks tingled her skin under the satin fabric. Holding her hand for just a moment more than necessary, he noted the emerald green gown she was wearing, how it complimented her auburn hair and the delicate curls of hair on either side that framed her face, before straightening and turning his attention to her companions.

"I trust I find you both well?" Holmes enquired politely of the couple.

"Indeed, indeed!" Randolf replied jovially. "We were just saying to Helen here how much we have been enjoying the outdoors now we have taken up the sporting life."

Holmes nodded. "You have become a racing man."

"Quite so!" The Grufstreds exchanged smiles at the detective's deductive skills before Randolf looked back at him. "I pray it is not your keen sense of smell that informs you of it, Mr. Holmes?"

"No," Holmes smiled, "my keen sense of hearing. A couple of gentlemen were speaking of your new acquisition as I entered the room."

Martha laughed softly. "Well, you shall have to see him for yourself, Mr. Holmes. We have high hopes of him for the next steeplechase season."

"I shall trust to your judgement, Mrs. Grufstred, and when he runs he shall have the backing of my funds," Holmes replied politely.

"Oh my…" Martha's smile faded slightly as she grew a little unsettled. "I had not thought that people might wager upon our bright boy! Now, I shall feel doubly nervous upon the day!"

Randolf smiled affectionately at his wife. "My dear, you must have known money would change hands."

"I had only thought of our own! Oh…" she sighed, "now I will feel quite responsible for those poor people losing their money if he does not win!"

Helen touched her hand reassuringly. "I would not worry in the slightest, Martha. I am quite sure, based on what you and Randolf have said, that he will romp home unopposed."

Martha brightened at that. "Yes." She beamed as Holmes's attention wandered, the conversation not overly engaging him. "Yes, you are quite right, Helen! He is a wonderful animal! He shall do us all proud!"

"Mr. Holmes, did I not hear tell of your being involved recently with the case concerning Silver Blaze?" Mr. Grufstred enquired.

"Some time ago now," Holmes replied, his attention shifting back to the solicitor.

"Oh, you must tell me of it!" Martha insisted, her eyes shining as Holmes attempted not to look discomfited. "Every detail. I adore hearing tales of your adventures and I am quite enamoured of all things equestrian at the moment."

Glancing at Holmes, Helen turned to the couple with whom she had been lingering. "Perhaps a little later, Martha?" she suggested swiftly but evenly. "I really must congratulate Mr. Fortany on his marvellous exhibition this evening, and Mr. Holmes has yet to meet the artist," she informed them before turning to Holmes. "Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes nodded. "Of course."

Depositing her glass onto a waiter's tray, she led the detective away upon the longest possible route to the artist in question, keeping her smile and her voice small. "Your public is ever eager."

"Watson's public," he responded as they walked. "I am confused for the man he writes about."

"Nonsense," she returned, giving a polite nod to a minor noble as they passed by. "You are quite brilliant and deserve the praise for your work. Speaking of which, how went your case?"

"Resolved." he replied. "A simple case of murder borne from thwarted passion."

"I see. Well, I am most gratified that you could come and have returned to London no worse for wear." She glanced up at him. "Your presence was missed."

"Is that so? I would've thought the criminal element of London might have enjoyed the respite," he teased. "Still London…and some of its environs…were equally missed."

"Well, I am sure the criminal element will be retreating as we speak." Giving him a private smile, she turned her head to glance around the room. "I am most curious as to which environs of London you missed." Her head dipped down to hide her growing amusement. "Mancini's no doubt...St. James Hall? Baker Street?"

"Baker Street, without doubt," he agreed as they moved leisurely through the exhibition hall. "There is after all, no place like one's own home."

"Quite," she murmured. "Home is most certainly where the heart is."

They paused by a striking coastal seascape, both gazing at it but neither really taking the painting in as they stood before it. "You have quite a turnout I've noticed," he commented. "Bankers, entrepreneurs, society leaders, and nobility."

"Many like to patronise the arts, thankfully," she agreed with a nod. "My father's foundation has done well in encouraging artists and scholars from deprived backgrounds. But I must admit, I am quite surprised how many of those that usually declined to participate in the Foundation's work under my father have begun to appear...this year and last. Perhaps word of mouth is finally spreading." On noticing his expression, however, she sighed. "Or perhaps they simply find it easier to give to the déclassé now that one of their number is no longer in charge." She quelled her disappointment on behalf of her late father and glanced at her beau, his presence lightening her mood no end. "Despite my earlier words, I truly am appreciative that you were able to attend."

"You know me well enough now to know that I appreciate the arts." He gazed at her for a moment. "My attendance here, so hard on the heels of my return, has absolutely nothing do with that, however."

Her head dipped a little to hide her expression. "It does not?"

"No, it does not," he replied firmly, looking back at the seascape. "There is only one good reason for my being here. One, I hope by now you are well aware of."

Her head turned to him, the loose curls of her hair hiding the view for any passers by and her grey eyes alight. "Yes," she replied, her tone a little throaty. "I do believe I am."

He nodded slowly. "Then you should know that even though my time is often not my own and I am unable to attend to it as often as I might wish, that reason remains paramount in my mind to an increasing degree."

A flush of pleasure flooded her cheeks as he looked back at her. "Now...Madam President," he said quietly, "do your duties keep you long here this evening? Is there a dinner for the artist that you must attend?"

She smiled a little and shook her head. "On the contrary, there was a reception before the showing, so I find myself quite at a loose end after this event."

"Serendipitous. Perhaps, after your duties here are complete, if you wandered to the corner of Trafalgar square and Pall Mall and happened to meet me, you might consent to dine with me this evening?" he asked, keeping in mind the low profile they were maintaining.

Despite his cool exterior, she had learned enough of the subtle tones of his voice to be able to tell that he greatly desired her presence at dinner. "I believe I would be amenable," she replied lightly.

Reaching to take out his pocket watch, he moved with her to a shadowed colonnaded area removed from the general rooms where one large painting -- a nude of Eve meeting Adam in the Garden -- hung. Another couple stood, perusing the painting, softly lit, somewhat unusually, by electric light before they moved on. "Another hour, perhaps?" He closed his watch and turned his attention to the picture before them.

A ghost of a smile on her lips, Helen gazed at the painting of the blond woman holding the apple and nodded. "That would be acceptable."

"Excellent..." His gaze wandered over the painting as if assigning his approval to it instead. "Well then, I should allow you to be about your duties, Madam President, should I not?"

A light frown crossed her brow as she realized she was rather loathe to part from him even for so brief a period of time, but she nodded all the same, stifling the sigh. "Yes, I must introduce you to our new artist and mingle a deal more than I have been before the dreaded speech."

"I look forward to hearing it. You speak well…when you are calm," he added, glancing down at her.

She laughed softly, aware of her tendency to babble when agitated. Her eyes met his and secluded as they were, for a moment it seemed to her there was no one else in this room but the two of them. She was sure that if he asked her to, she'd leave with him...now...duty or no...if he asked anything of her, she would do it without question. And she was quite sure, too, that at that moment it was completely written in her gaze.

His eyes roved her face, a deep sense of his own fortuitousness taking hold of him as he realised what had come to him, what he had found in her, and what she had through devotion, honesty, and constancy uncovered in him. He had never thought to find himself here, still less to find himself affected so. The colonnaded area was empty save for them, its structure blocking them from prying eyes as he brushed her cheek, the backs of his fingers stroking her soft skin, a surge of selfishness taking hold. The memory of his first official foray into physical intimacy with her the night of her birthday had lingered, remarkably so. There had been precious few opportunities to re-enact that undeniably pleasant moment, and the deprivation had only made the thought of it stronger. "Is there someone else who might give your speech for you?"

His touch sparking little fires through her, she unwittingly took a step closer to him. "Technically it is I as president who must...however...I can make it appear, with a little help, that I have been called away...and have Mr. Grufstred take my place..." she breathed, her fingers tightening on his arm.

"What help do you require?" His hand slipped to the lock of hair by her ear, his fingers brushing her ear gently as he played with it.

"A note given to one of the waiters to give to me...with some subtly convincing reason for me to leave on it..." she replied, deeply inhaling the scent of his cologne and, unable to help herself, turned her head to brush her lips over his wrist lightly above the cuff-line.

"I believe a note can be arranged." He watched her mouth move on his skin, his voice little more than a heated murmur.

Swiftly, gently, he pulled her towards him, his mouth finding hers in a flashingly brief but impassioned kiss, his lips insistent on hers, tasting and enjoying her before, just as quickly, it was over. Stepping away with another formal inclination of his head, a gesture completely at odds with the moment of ardour he had just exhibited, he moved away to find the components for the note she required.

Completely breathless and more than a little dizzy at the intensity of the moment, Helen watched him retreat. Chastising herself to collect herself immediately, she straightened and forcibly stilled her rapid breathing only to blush and avert her eyes, the figures in the picture before her not helping in the slightest. Placing her fingers to her lips, still electrified and humming from his kiss, she smiled softly before moving out of the alcove and into the crowd, praying inwardly he completed his task quickly so they could be alone further.

Ten minutes later, one of the ushers situated outside approached her as she was speaking with the curator of the Gallery and Sir Clive Reville. A renowned patron of the arts, Sir Clive was deeply interested in sponsoring the subject of the Thurlow Foundation's Exhibition, the artist in question currently speaking with a composed Holmes far across the gallery.

"Excuse me, Miss Thurlow," the young man said apologetically, "but this note has just been handed in for you."

Helen took it, the slight frown of irritation on her face perfectly in keeping with the role she had to play. Opening it, she scanned the contents quickly and trying desperately not to smile, she nodded at the young usher to send him on his way.

Excusing herself, she made her way to Mr. Grufstred and taking him aside, explained that she'd been called away on an urgent personal matter and that she would very much appreciate it if he could pass along her apologies and fill in for her. The amiable lawyer naturally agreed, and after assuring him that all would be well, she thanked him and headed for the door.

Retrieving her cloak from the doorman, she hurried through the museum, across the dark and now quiet Trafalgar Square, and past Nelson's Pillar to where the square met Pall Mall. And somehow, there he was ahead of her, watching from the corner of the square and the beginning of the great sweep of road that led right up the front of Buckingham Palace while swinging his cane idly, the remarkably balmy evening affording him the luxury of leaving his overcoat open.

The evening, being so mild, had brought out a great many people, most of whom mingled around the fountain in the square, many lingering on their way to the nearby theatre district for an evening out or meeting wives and sweethearts after work.

"I see your skills of evasion are suitably toned," he said by way of complimenting her on her prompt escape as she approached.

She smiled and held up the note. "I had a good cause for motivation," she returned, loving the way his eyes shone in the glow of the sunset.

"Yes, it is an unfortunate thing to have all your cats disappear at once like that. Quite the mystery." His eyes were mischievous as he bent his head towards her smiling face. "So now that I have tempted you to bohemian ways, where shall we go?"

Knowing she didn't care a whit as long as he was with her, she kept her equanimity to answer lightly, "Where would you suggest?"

He mused a space, gazing across the square. "There are a great many small and private cafés in the area, mostly favoured by actors and their admirers. They boast good food, private booths, and discretion. Perhaps there? And then, as the evening is so fine, we might make for the Thames and a walk along the river before you return to Brown's?"

She appeared thoughtful, her teeth capturing her bottom lip as they usually did when she put her mind to something, until sufficient seconds had passed to ensure she didn't seem as eager as she was. "That sounds delightful," she replied. "A perfect evening."

He smiled a little as he slipped her arm around his, drawing her to his side, his eyes resting on the soft grey of hers. "Indeed," he agreed before leading her back across the square to Charing Cross and the Theatre district.

* * *

The private booths of Martell's provided a discreet haven for their tryst. A small but cosy café, Martell's would, once the theatres emptied, be filled with the more successful actors and actresses and their conquests. Reflecting its clientele, the café was a mixture of high art and high society with just the delicate hint of artistic impropriety mixed in. Impropriety embodied by the velvet curtains that could be drawn about each semicircular booth and the just a little too evident amount of scarlet in the environs -- something that Helen commented on, her tone a mixture of intrigue and mild scandal. 

The close confines of the booth allowed them to sit close, but while privacy was to be desired, Holmes declined to ask for the curtains to be closed. Unless there was a number of people inside or they were married, any such action would, quite rightly, offend his companion.

Martell's was by no means disreputable, but it did have a certain notoriety, and over an excellent dinner Holmes regaled her with one or two of the milder incidents that had occurred there over the years, the celebrities and on occasion royals who had visited there, and the scenes that had sometimes occurred with jealous husbands accosting lothario actors or society scoundrels attempting to lure their actress wives away. But he also spoke of the works of art that had been created there, his love for the theatre and the actor's art shining through as he talked of the dramatists who had used the privacy of the booths to create some of the great plays of the last three decades.

He had promised, to her delight, to increase the scope of their evenings out from merely opera and concerts to more evenings at the theatre. It seemed to him that a new crop of writers were beginning to make their names upon the boards and a promise of a golden age of the theatre was upon them.

Helen found herself enthralled by the entire experience. Having never been to such a place as this before, she found her eyes, bright with curiosity, drifting over the decor and people as they spoke. She always enjoyed her evenings and nights out with him, but this night was quickly topping the others. Her impulsive move of abandoning her duties combined with the joy at seeing him after his absence, the kiss he'd given her at the showing, and this vibrant place made her feel more alive than she could recall. For a man so reserved in so many ways, he did bring a great deal of excitement to her life.

A long index finger drifted up and down the stem of his crystal wine glass while he took in her enthralment with a quiet smile. "You are enjoying the surroundings?" he enquired. His own eyes followed hers. "I thought you might find them interesting...if a trifle decadent."

"They are a little...raffish," she agreed, turning back to him. "I have never been anywhere quite like it. Can we come back here again?" The request came a trifle speedily.

His soft laugh caused her to blush. "Whenever you wish," he assured her. "Perhaps next time, I shall arrange a reservation for after a performance and then you can see what it is like when full and lively. That is, if I haven't deterred you by my recounting the occasional _incidents_ that occur."

She shook her head quickly in the negative. "Oh no...I mean, they are colourful, but incredibly fascinating as well," she breathed.

"Very well then, if you feel I am not leading you astray," he cocked an eyebrow at her, "next time we are both free and there is a worthwhile offering in the theatre, we shall come here," he promised.

Her smile beamed with pleasure. "Thank you. I shall look forward to it."

"Would you care for dessert? Their parfait is quite delicious, I believe, and I hear tell of a chocolate and hazelnut torte..." he said temptingly. "Or would you prefer we take that walk? It is early still, just gone nine-thirty. We have time for whatever you desire."

Taking a sip of her wine, she smiled, allowing her esteem for him to fill her eyes now they were alone. "How could I pass up either of those enticing propositions, Mr. Holmes?" she murmured. "If there is time, then I feel the definite need for something sweet after so savoury a meal."

After Holmes beckoned the waiter to them, a dessert menu was supplied to her while he ordered a cognac for himself. As the waiter departed, having cleared their plates, Holmes sat back and reached into his jacket pocket, taking out his cigarette case. "Do you mind?" he asked politely of her.

Glancing up from the menu, she shook her head. "No...please," she replied, indicating for him to continue, a tiny smile lighting on her lips upon seeing the case she had gifted to him last Christmas, as she tried to decide between two absolutely sinful treats. "Indian again?" she inquired of the tobacco.

He smiled a little and nodded as he reached for his matches, remembering his first similar request of her and their subsequent conversation in which she confessed her love of the scent. Lighting his cigarette, he drew on it, the white smoke encircling the booth as he exhaled. "Have you made a decision?"

She nibbled on her bottom lip for a moment before nodding in affirmation. "Yes...I think I will try the parfait," she replied. "Though I must say, they all look equally tempting."

"Their pastry chef is renowned," he told her as the waiter returned with his cognac.

Taking her request for both dessert and coffee, the dapper waiter returned again in short order with her lemon parfait. Layers of lemon custard, syrup, and whipped cream filled the tall frosted glass, the delicate French sugar biscuits a delicious accompaniment around the base of the glass. "Would you like your coffee now, miss, or shall you wait until you finish your dessert?" he enquired, his handlebar moustache twitching slightly.

Barely containing her enthusiasm, she smiled politely at the waiter as Holmes sipped on his cognac. "After, thank you," she replied, her fingers itching to pick up the spoon, and with a quick bow, the waiter left them once more. Raising her spoon, she slowly dipped it into the desert, letting the anticipation build before scooping out a section and sliding it into her mouth. An expression of barely restrained ecstasy formed on her face as soon as the treat hit her taste buds.

"I see the parfait lives up to its reputation," Holmes commented with a slightly raised eyebrow at her reaction, amusement alive in his eyes as he leaned forward to tap the ash from his cigarette.

Blinking, she turned to face him, flushing slightly as she spooned up another bite. "It really is quite tasty," she understated greatly before sliding the spoon into her mouth once more. Her eyes closing just a little, she sighed with pleasure as she drew on the spoon lightly before removing it again.

"So I see," Holmes agreed as he put down his cigarette to take up his cognac, sipping on it once more. However, watching her over the rim of his glass as it remained poised at his lips, he felt the amusement slowly slide away. A surge of unaccustomed warmth washed through him as her pleasure filled sighs and innocently ecstatic looks of enjoyment mingled with the potent alcohol, heating his blood. Dragging his eyes from her mouth, he put down his glass and put out his cigarette, frowning slightly and admonishing himself inwardly in the strongest possible terms.

In allowing himself to begin to approach her in more intimate terms, he knew he was playing with the most dangerous form of fire. He was a man and he knew full well what he was capable of. Control over one's physical desires was easy enough when you allowed yourself no catalyst to spark them. However, having lit the flame, it was imperative that he kept it under control.

"I shall have them convey your compliments to the pastry chef," he said, glossing over the incident in his own mind as she finished her dessert, the waiter quick about his job and providing her with her coffee. "Rarely have I seen a desert so thoroughly enjoyed...I believe I may partake of one myself the next time."

As they finished and upon receiving the bill, Holmes drew the notes from his wallet and placed them on the small silver tray, leaving a handsome tip to boot. "Come, we should not waste an eve such as this seated indoors. Time to take advantage of the pleasant clime while we may." He slipped out of the booth and helped her to do the same before walking with her to the attendant, who delivered their coats to them.

Leaving Martell's, they took the short stroll through Charing Cross down to the Embankment. Street lights and vendors with their gas lamps lit up the length of the Thames riverbank. In the distance, Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament were outlined against the moonlit sky. It was not as busy here as Trafalgar, but other couples had come to walk and talk here as well. The benches spread along the bank more often than not contained courting couples, the area alive with light and just as important, shadows into which lovers might slip to talk or steal a kiss. Several letters a week to _The Times_ complained of such behaviour. However, no one thus far had considered the matter worth dealing with.

"Shall we walk in the direction of Parliament or to the Temple and Blackfriars Bridge?" he asked her. "Blackfriars is a little further."

"Blackfriars, then," she replied just a little impishly, both hands coming to rest on top of his arm so as to draw her in a little closer. "If only as an excuse to keep you with me longer."

Pleased, he turned them in the direction of the curve of the river, taking a sedate pace to help facilitate that longer time together. "How is your mother?" he asked. "I neglected to ask in the rush of the early evening."

"Quite well," she replied. "The boys keep her busy, and she has enjoyed the chance to garden this summer. I believe she will be travelling alone to Bath next weekend to visit her sister for a week's holiday and I know she is very much looking forward to it."

"Alone," he observed, impressed. "She has come along way since we first took you both from your home in Bayham Street in that cab." He glanced at her, his smile growing a little. "You both have...to the point that you can afford your own cabs. A fleet of them in fact."

She bit her lip to keep from laughing and shot him a good natured glare. "Yes...well...as you can see I am _still_ not adverse to walking." She squeezed his arm slightly. "I think all our lives have taken very interesting turns since that day."

"Lives and opinions both. I trust you no longer think me the pompous ass you did when I baited you during that carriage ride that evening, for one?" he teased.

Her eyes widened as she turned her head to look up at him. "I never said you were a…" her voice lowered, "pompous ass. Perhaps rigidly opinionated and a bit cold."

He blinked and arched an eyebrow as he gazed down at her. "I said _thought_ it, Helen, and when did you call me rigidly opinionated and cold?"

A crimson blush spread over her cheeks and she looked down hurriedly. "Well...um...to my mother actually. I was a little...irritated…after that cab ride, and when John took down the bags while I was assuring her that we were not off to the asylum...I talked a bit about who…who would be with us in the cab." She stumbled over her words before stopping and looking up at him with sincere regret on her face. "I do not think that way anymore and haven't in a very long time...not since that night really. I apologise most heartily if I have hurt your feelings."

"Not at all." He drew her arm in closer, reassuringly. "It was an accurate enough assessment of my behaviour. It would be ridiculous of me to deliberately choose to rile you and then take offence at your being riled."

She nodded, but her face still looked uncertain, his confession at deliberately incensing her those years ago not fazing her in the slightest -- she had long ago realized his ploy.

He sighed on seeing her expression and turned towards her. "I assure you, Helen, such opinions hold no hardship for me. To the world at large, I often appear opinionated and cold, when in fact I am merely forthright and rational. I angered you that night for a purpose. I take no offence and hold no grudge." His hand rose, his fingers touching the curls at one side of her face. "Truly."

"Thank you," she whispered.

He smiled in reply. "I am gratified my good opinion holds such weight with you."

"You hold weight with me," she assured him, laying a hand on his chest for emphasis.

He looked into her eyes, which in the far reaches of the glow of the lamplight seemed to have darkened to charcoal grey. Wrapping her hand around his arm, he walked on with her. "So you will be in St. Albans all week while your mother is away?" he enquired, renewing their conversation.

Barely repressing a sigh of disappointment at the loss of the moment, but aware of how public they were, she nodded. "Yes...the boys continue to take lessons during the mornings at the Days' home until around two, and then they have other lessons in the afternoon such as shooting, riding, archery, dancing, and music depending on the day."

"If I am not otherwise engaged, I might take a trip up to visit," he broached.

"Please do." She flashed him a smile. "The boys would love to see you. They have come to be rather keen admirers of you, you know...though I think in a more realistic sense than most."

"More realistic," he repeated with a smile. "Do I understand by that, that you have decided to take away from them the bad influence that is John Watson M.D.'s prose?"

"On the contrary," she returned, a mischievous glitter in her eyes, "they read him rather avidly. I just refer to the fact they have had the opportunity to get to know the man behind the detective. He is quite an interesting one, you know."

"Indeed, I have long said so," he replied blithely.

She nodded, looking out over the river. "Rather charming...a marvellous violinist...elegant dancer...quite intelligent...very witty. Swept me off my feet..." A ghost of a smile hovered on her lips. "Not to mention most handsome."

"Now you exaggerate." He shook his head. "I am at best a moderate violinist."

She tried to bite back her amusement, but couldn't help chuckling.

He blinked as something struck him. "_Quite_ intelligent?" He stopped, exaggeratedly appalled. The devilish twinkle that met him was very apparent even in the gaslight as she quirked an eyebrow at him. "Madam, you can be quite wicked when you want to be."

"Just a little." Taking his hands in hers, she stepped closer. "Very well...if I must be honest, he's brilliantly intelligent." Her tone turned merrily admonitory. "Not that you are not aware of how intelligent you are and how keen your observation skills are...but that doesn't mean I am not appreciative of them either." She smiled, reaching up and stroking the side of his face tenderly, content and happy. "I really do adore you," she whispered before she could stop herself, and then realizing what had just passed her lips, blushed crimson again as her mind raced frantically on how to correct her overly emotional utterance.

He raised his head, a little startled by the public declaration. Taking a step away, he looked around and cleared his throat.

Seeing his expression and his reaction, she let go of his hands, chastising herself inwardly for letting her guard down. "I'm sorry I...should..." Her words once more stumbled to a halt, her eyes fixed on the ground.

A moment later, she found herself drawn into the shadows near an old elm, just out of the reaches of the gaslight. Strong, gentle fingers grasped her chin and drew her face upwards, and then as insistently and heatedly as they had been in the gallery, his lips were on hers once again. Her eyes widened in complete surprise before with a soft moan she sank into his arms, her own wrapping around his neck and pulling him even more tightly to her. Her heart seemed to want to beat out of her chest, it had sped up so, while the rest of her body hummed and vibrated with the feel of him in her arms, the scent of him in her nose, the taste of him on her lips.

His lips mingled with and captured hers, and he heard the surge and roar of blood in his ears as it rose in response to her touch, his internal warnings at the restaurant submerged by a sudden irresistible urge to repay her words. In the end, it was the sound of footsteps nearby that allowed Holmes's mind to assert some form of control once more, but though he broke the kiss he did not pull away from her. His forehead, instead, leaned against hers, his head just slightly turned as he warily watched the approach of a business man on his way towards Westminster, the man's eyes straight in front of him and seemingly oblivious to the entwined lovers in the dark.

Eyes hazy and drunk with him, she gazed at her beau intently as he watched the one who disturbed them, her fingers continuing to swirl over the bared skin on the nape of his neck, her lips parted and breathless. As he stood, his body taut against hers, ready to take action should he need to protect her identity and reputation, she could feel herself cry out silently for him to return, to kiss her again, part of her inwardly amazed at the depth of her passion for this man…and what two…no, three kisses had stirred in her. She knew she should be as concerned with her reputation as he...but was forced to admit that at that moment, she did not care one whit.

As the businessman moved past, Holmes turned his gaze back to his sweetheart, the look in her eyes visible to him even in the shadows and taking him by surprise. Her hand trailed down to cup his cheek as she gently drew his mouth back to hers. He tasted of tobacco and cognac, his lips were soft but firm, his touch hesitant but knowing...and there, underneath the gas lamps and the stars, the river laid out before them, it was all she could have ever hoped for in a stolen moment.

While he did not wish for one minute to share this with the world, he at least knew now why those others he had seen entwined in such moments and dismissed as tiresome could not contain themselves. The flesh was not weak. The flesh was strong, stronger than the mind. It demanded to touch and feel and meld, and there was little the mind could do against such a force. But as he broke the kiss again, the moment's respite was enough for his brain to fully reassert control. "We should walk on," he told her, his voice soft but firm, knowing more could only be dangerous.

"Of course," she managed to breathe out, her thumb stroking over his jawbone. "You are quite right. It is rather...public."

He nodded slowly. "A good thief knows their boundaries. An act of passionate larceny unsuspected?" He smiled at her with flashing eyes. "The perfect crime."

A wide grin and twinkling eyes lit up her face as she gave him a slow incline of her head before they walked on.

Conversation, easy and comfortable, turned to Helen's increasing prominence thanks to her wealth and her charitable and trustee positions. With her name appearing on average in the society pages at least every two weeks, the subject of her own notoriety arose as they approached Blackfriars.

"You are becoming quite a doyenne of society," Holmes summarised. "_The Times_ was wondering whether you would be taking a house in London again any time soon."

She sighed and shook her head. "I considered it briefly...but not for the reasons the papers would have it. I am not comfortable being so prominently public, as you well know. This money and position are not truly mine. I do only what is right and proper to secure the future of my brothers. I will gladly hand it all over to them when they are of age, rest assured. I am also not one for grand parties and balls, and if I were to stay in London the reasons to decline the invitations would be fewer. The chance to escape home to St. Albans is very appealing after each of them. There is also the fact that my family is quite settled now in Hertfordshire…I would not think of uprooting them all again."

"It is ironic, given that though you come on your mother's side from society folk who craved wealth, and your father was so desirous of social position, that you, with both wealth and acceptance have no desire for either," he pointed out. "Of course...if anything, your removal from the centre of London life only serves to whet the gossips' appetites still further. Especially with the press, thanks to my...arrangement, dealing only with your public affairs and paying a singular lack of attention to your personal intrigues. You are mysterious to them, Helen, and I am not alone in being hooked by a good mystery." He smirked slightly. "Though their deductive skills need honing if the report I heard at Simpson's linking you to Lord Faversham is anything to go by." He did not hide his growing smile.

A low groan escaped her lips. "I had hoped you would not hear of that. I have no idea where that report came from, Sherlock...I barely know the man."

"To be seen more than once in his company is more than enough, no doubt," Holmes replied. "And such a suitable match, I heard. He is so prominent of brow, imposing of manner and nobility, a strong and charismatic man, I believe they said, one would hardly know from that description he was fifty-five, nearsighted, and had gout. Still, I'm sure you and he would spend many a happy evening together as you change his bandages."

She raised her hand to her mouth to stifle the laugh that threatened to bubble forth. "Indeed...sounds most stimulating indeed, and much more appealing than some of those Her Grace, the Duchess of Monmouth, once had waiting for me," she replied, barely repressing a sigh.

"It is hardly surprising," he conceded, moving towards the rail of the bridge to gaze back down along the Thames and the lights of London, "that such gossip continues. After all, outside your and my most intimate circle of friends, no one is aware of the truth of our relationship beyond that of friendship. Most probably because my reputation is such that they could barely conceive of it even if they thought of it."

A ghost of a smile crossed her face as she joined him. "You are the most confirmed and celebrated bachelor in London...notorious for it even," she agreed. "It is well documented that the idea of paying court to a woman is something that would not ever cross your mind to do."

"Celebrated, I may be, but to all intents and purposes, I am a tradesman, an artisan, which is hardly suitable for a lady of status such as yourself. Which is why we have not been linked together."

"You are suitable to me," she replied softly, turning her gaze over to the water once more.

"And _you_ are the hope of several impoverished noble houses...with society on your mother's side and wealth on your father's, you are a highly lucrative catch. Not to mention one that the eye rests easily upon and which would not bore a man rigid." He glanced at her again, this time curiously. "Have you perchance received any actual advances?"

She stiffened a little at that, reluctant to inform him, but she eventually nodded. "Yes...some letters have been sent my way, and just as promptly refused. One or two more than once."

"I see." He nodded, growing quiet for a moment as they resumed their stroll, but upon reaching the bridge, he stopped once more. "I apologise if my insistence on a level of caution is making things...uncomfortable...for you."

She turned to him. "I understand that you wish what we have to be private. Believe me, I do."

He looked at her closely. "But you would rather it were more widely known about the truth of our standing than it is."

With another, much longer sigh, she looked down, her shoulders slumping. "Your reasons are still valid, Sherlock," she replied. "Danger, past enemies, grudges that may present themselves...in addition you are known for your unbiased judgement and concentration upon your work...and I represent the bias and the diversion. You know I would love nothing more than to tell the world I am being courted by Mr. Sherlock Holmes...but it is not my decision to make."

Holmes remained silent for a time, staring down into the slowly flowing inky depths of the great river below them. "I think tonight has proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that things between us have moved to the point where physical intimacies have become…unavoidable. Even while remaining within the bounds of propriety, gestures of familiarity become obvious. I have seen far too many think to hide their involvement when they are so engaged and fail utterly. Once physical affection becomes the norm, the language of the -- pardon my crudity -- body does the rest."

He inhaled slowly. "And I admit that I grow less comfortable with making you behave thus. There is enjoyment to be had in the occasional whimsical dereliction of duty as with this evening. But I cannot expect you to play the truant often and ultimately, I would rather I am able to take you out without subterfuge. For in the long run, a woman who undertakes to maintain a relationship in this manner can only do her reputation harm.

"Perhaps…" his voice was thoughtful, "we might engage the aid of Lady Margaret and the Duchess. Society, especially that of the upper classes, when engaged to action can be a tremendous ally in such matters. If we ask them to subtly and quietly let it be known that we have an understanding...the others will take their tone from them without doubt. We would be left free to move about in good company, and you would be no longer unencumbered by further advances…while all the while the press would maintain the façade, along with Watson, of my confirmed bachelorhood." He looked to her for her reaction.

Her eyes widened, not having expected him to come to that decision. "Yes," she breathed, taking his hand in hers. "I think that is the most logical and amiable path, indeed."

He looked down at her fingers entwined with his. "Very well then," he nodded slowly, "ask Lady Margaret to let it be spread quietly around, beginning with the Duchess. That will allow it to gently permeate the upper stratosphere as it were."

"All right," she agreed with quiet excitement, not only at getting rid of the errant hopefuls but finally at being able to have her beau escort her openly and be seen with him without fear that it would cause him problems. "I will speak to Maggie in the afternoon when she calls for luncheon at the hotel."

He nodded in reply and looking over his shoulder, gestured with his free hand to a cab approaching the bridge. "Speaking of the hotel, it's time I returned you there now, the evening is getting late," he told her softly as the cab pulled in alongside of them.

She inclined her head in answer, though her eyes showed how reluctant she was for the evening to end. "Will I see you again soon?" she asked, her voice hopeful.

"I think it necessary to follow up the leaked information with a visual confirmation," he agreed with a solemn nod as he led her to the cab. "Perhaps once your mother has returned and you are free again?"

"I will make it a point to be in London," she assured him. "Though I hope I will not have to wait that long to see you once more. You must come for dinner or tea if you are free before then," she insisted, her thumb moving over his.

"All going well," he assured her with a smile.

"Good," she replied with a squeeze of her hand before allowing him to help her inside the transport.

Moving in after her, he instructed the cabbie to take them back to her hotel, which was but a short distance from Trafalgar. From Blackfriars it took them little more than six minutes to reach it and as they approached, Holmes, sitting with her arm wrapped around his, rubbed her hand gently. "It appears we must say goodnight once more."

She nodded and sighed, clearly unwilling to leave him. "It only seems to grow more difficult each time," she lamented softly.

He raised his hand, hers along with it, and kissed it, eschewing the chance to kiss her more fully, knowing now that such a thing could only draw the attention of the porter and the cabbie to the fact that they were not disembarking. "Thank you for your company."

"And you yours," she replied before smiling softly at him and resting her palm against his cheek. "Good night," she breathed before impulsively leaning forward and kissing his lips softly only to pull just as quickly away and exit the cab.

He watched her go safely inside and with a soft smile, sat back and ordered the cab on to Baker Street, knowing the next time he saw her, his reputation as the most committed bachelor in London would have evaporated amongst the great and the good. The knowledge of this was, however, more than tempered by the fact that a woman like Helen Thurlow had found him...suitable.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: We're baaaaack! (giggles) Thank you all so much for all the lovely feedback for the last chapter, and we are both so sorry that this one took so long! However, my wonderous co-author was escaping to the land of Mickey and we had to get a lot of things squared away before she left. This was one of them. But rest assured the next chapter is drafted and she has taken it with her to start her round of edits while on vacation. We hope to have something around the first week of April to post. Thank you for your patience. Again, if you would like to be clued in on our updates (or even care) feel free to join our yahoo group; the link is on our author page. Rest assured, though there may be gaps in our updating, we are most certainly not abandoning this story. Also, if there are any questions you may have, please feel free to ask. So, until next time! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**


	10. “L'amour Est un Oiseau Rebelle

**_Chapter Ten : "L'amour Est un Oiseau Rebelle"_**

_4th September, 1890_

Despite the oppressive damp weighing down upon London, the evening air seemed remarkably aromatic to Holmes as he disembarked from the cab. Gazing about the covered carriage entrance to the Covent Garden Theatre, awash with the gentry in their finest, he spied the flower sellers nearby. Roses, violets, and lilies lay in their baskets for gentlemen to purchase for their ladies on their way to and from their evening's entertainment. The fragrance was more pungent than even his alert senses would normally have accounted for, and he turned from the blossoms with little doubt as to the reason.

For the past two days, he had been in the blackest of dark moods. Of late there had been no case of note to interest him and left to his own devices, he had sunk into a morass of introversion. Neither Mrs. Hudson's attendances, nor Watson when alerted, could reach him. And in truth, both knew him and his moods well enough not to strive too much. Nothing and no one, no matter how dear, could bring him from this mood save himself.

That said, Watson had still maintained a quiet vigil for those hours he could afford given his wife's expectant condition. Reading silently or transcribing some old notes of his, he remained with his soundless friend until anxiety compelled him to return to his own home. His leaving was always marked by reluctance and a solemn assurance to the detective that he might return at any hour.

Both the reluctance and the near warning regarding his return were symptomatic of the greatest fear Watson had for his friend -- that inevitably, augmented by ill temper and lack of cerebral stimulus, the dangerous craving lurking ever present within Holmes's bloodstream would exert its will. That temptation and need would overcome him.

As indeed they had.

The uplifting flush of the narcotic's effects were fresh upon him when Mrs. Hudson had delivered the unexpected communiqué from Miss Thurlow, via courier. The short missive informed him that she was unexpectedly in London after her mother's return to St. Albans. It had also remarked that she had come into possession of a pair of much sought after tickets for tonight's eagerly awaited performance of _Carmen_ at the Garden. As a lady never invited a gentleman out, she had taken discreet pains to assure him that the invitation came not from herself, but rather via her friend Sir Nicholas Sotherby. The peer had forwarded the tickets to her on hearing of her presence, wondering whether they might make use of them, as he and his wife, Lady Margaret, could not use them due to their young son Colin's slight illness. It might also be, Nicholas had thought, the perfect stage for that 'launch' which had so carefully been prepared for them to this point.

Mrs. Hudson, surprised enough by his change in demeanour, could only watch as he burst forth into an acclamation of Bizet's masterpiece and without any thought at all, cheerfully accepted the invitation by return of courier.

Thankfully, the euphoric side effects had waned somewhat now, though his heightened awareness of things around him still spoke of an expansion of the mind and a level of emotional reaction far closer to the surface. Reactions he knew he must take pains to disguise. Taking a light breath, he inclined his black silk hat to a pair of passing ladies politely before turning and offering his hand to the lady behind him in the cab.

Almost as soon as Helen stepped from the cab resplendent in a blue satin cape, certain eyes amongst the exterior crowd alighted upon them. Their launch had begun. As had been agreed upon two weeks previous, word had been discreetly spread amongst London society of the truth of the relationship between Miss Helen Thurlow and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

The reins controlling the story had been in the firmly capable hands of Lady Margaret and the formidable Duchess of Monmouth, neither lady allowing the tale to become anything more scandalous than that of two friends whose admiration had deepened quite properly over time. To all intents and purposes, this had occurred only after the departure of Major Edwards for India.

Needless to say, with or without scandal, the story had caused ripples. Helen's wealth on her father's side and sufficiently good, if somewhat removed breeding, on her mother's had made her entirely eligible to a great many, now thwarted, gentlemen. These ripples in society had almost become waves, created by the sheer number of dropping jaws, when it had been announced that Sherlock Holmes of all people was at last squiring a woman.

His 'fall' had undoubtedly been the subject of some restrained mirth in the withdrawing rooms and salons of fashionable London. But, he noted to himself on escorting Helen into the foyer of the theatre, not half as much amusement as curiosity, the whispering spreading as more and more people caught sight of them. Sir Nicholas had been quite right -- a perfect stage indeed.

Reaching up, he drew Helen's cape from her shoulders as she unfastened it, turning to hand it to the cloakroom attendant before removing his own black cape, hat, and white silk scarf and receiving his coat ticket. Turning back to Helen, he joined her in taking in the sumptuous foyer, his own eyes scanning the cream of society with polite indifference.

Turning back to him, her grey eyes dancing, she gave him a soft eager smile. She had always loved going to the opera. The music, the costumes, the drama unfolding, the emotions it produced -- it all caught her imagination. She had not as yet seen the passionate _Carmen_, but her excitement did not only stem from the upcoming production. "I believe," she murmured, "the opera will not be the only entertainment tonight."

He smiled, pleased with her matching observation as she stepped closer and, for the first time in public, took his proffered arm as her beau. She worked hard to curb the pride and pleasure that bubbled inside of her as he led her towards the sweep of the carpeted stairs, the grand staircase curling upwards to the private box above that Nicholas had provided for them. Clad in her new pale grey silk and lace gown with its puffed sleeves, her auburn hair neatly pinned except for the curls of hair about her temple that she knew he privately adored, she felt every inch the queen upon his arm, for once not at all minding the attention levelled at her, though she knew such feelings were immodest.

Moving to the steps, he nodded at some gentlemen of his acquaintance and began to slowly lead her up them. "Given your love of music, I thought it odd you had not seen this work before, but of course, you were but twelve when it was first staged and have hardly had much opportunity to see it since."

She chuckled a little and nodded. "Yes, though I have been endeavouring to make up for lost time these last couple of years. I particularly enjoyed Gounod's _Faust_...but do admit to finding Wagner rather tiresome. Of course, Mozart's operas are not to be missed."

"Indeed not," he agreed, while noticing a particularly renowned society gossip take careful heed of their arrival and close proximity as they made their way to the first floor. Holmes also could not fail to see the subtle elbow the tiny but immensely haughty lady dug into the side of her bored-looking husband.

The man was exceedingly well trained, his eyes and manner springing to life at the signal. Clearly in terror of his diminutive wife, he looked around swiftly and, following the direction of her gaze, spotted her mark. "Good evening Mr. Holmes," he said hurriedly by way of the greeting and lure his bird like wife could not, through feminine reserve, cast the detective's way.

Stifling his smile, Holmes slipped to a smooth halt and inclined his head. "Good evening Mr. Patterson-Hill, Mrs. Patterson-Hill." His hazel eyes met the sharp green of those of the near professional tattler. There was a lengthy silence as she waited expectantly, he allowing her to, until a flash of irritation showed in her eyes and he claimed a silent victory. "Miss Helen Thurlow," he said lightly, finally acquiescing to the introduction that gave the older woman the opening she required.

Her slender gloved hand fairly shot out, her face all sweet amiability and charm, eyelashes fluttering alarmingly. "My dear, what a pleasure to meet you at last," she gushed, her olive green silk gown rustling with the volume of her wide gesticulations. "I was just saying to St. John here," she tapped her husband's arm with her fan, "that it was an absolute scandal that we have not crossed paths at the more fashionable parties, nor been sufficiently well acquainted via friends to call upon one another."

Helen, rather taken aback by the flapping of the lady's eyes and hands, composed herself and took her hand. "Most regretful," she replied, thanking heaven internally, "though I must take the blame as I do not attend a very great number of…fashionable…parties and, living in St. Albans as I do, afternoon calling is somewhat of an inconvenience."

"My dear, _St. Albans_ is an inconvenience!" Amelia Patterson-Hill's irritatingly tinkling laugh rang out -- a laugh far too girlish for a woman of her forty-five years or so. "Why, anywhere outside of London is an inconvenience during the Season. The city really is the only place to live."

"Thankfully not," Holmes interjected dryly. "Otherwise, you might find it severely overcrowded."

Mr. Patterson-Hill's snort of humour was rewarded with a withering glare from his wife, a look that transformed itself back into a sugar-filled smile as she turned her gaze back to the detective. "As sharp as ever, Mr. Holmes," she replied, leaving the small ensemble with the vague awareness that she did not necessarily see that as attractive in a man. Her smile grew a little more as her eyes flashed. "A trait you have taken new efforts with to succeed in duping _me_ into believing your friendship with Miss Thurlow here was merely that." Despite her light tone there was no hiding the underlying indication that she personally did not believe either the Duchess of Monmouth or Margaret in their assertion that the romance was only lately bloomed.

She was correct, of course, but Holmes was not inclined towards giving her the slightest satisfaction, knowing as he did that her razor tongue had been indirectly responsible for a great deal of mischief in others' marriages. "On the contrary, Mrs. Patterson-Hill, no effort at all was required…"

Helen's gentle cough beside him covered her laughter, as Mrs. Patterson-Hill's eyes widened.

"After all," Holmes continued reasonably as if totally unaware of any intimated offence his strategic pause might have given, "Miss Thurlow and I _were_ friends and indeed continue to be. Just as I am _quite _sure you and your husband are." He smiled a little at the couple's uncomfortable expressions and, giving a polite nod of his head, excused himself and Helen, taking them on their way.

Her shoulders quivering slightly in silent laughter as they mounted the second flight of stairs, Helen gave him a look that somehow managed to be half admonishment for his baiting the dreadful creature, and half sheer delight. "Mr. Holmes," her amusement still rang in her tone even as she forced her features into composure, "we came here to watch an opera _alongside_ good society, not to dance with it."

"True, but then it has been some time since we danced," he reflected, his own amusement playing around his lips.

She turned and gazed up at his profile, watching him scan the crowd with that casual but perceptive expression on his face. "True," she agreed.

"Perhaps next time we venture out, we may go somewhere to dance if you would like?" he suggested, halting them at the top of the stairs, joining the line that led to the liveried usher deferentially examining the tickets of the most prominent of the attendees this evening.

A few more glances came in their direction while they stood, a pleased expression forming on Helen's face at his taking a jesting remark and turning it to a thoughtful gesture. "I would like that very much," she replied, her fingers lightly squeezing his arm, the offer doubly meaningful as she knew he was not particularly fond of dancing.

Tickets taken, they moved on down the plush corridors that ran behind the private boxes. The carpeted walkways were crowded with exquisitely dressed ladies and parading gentlemen, the buzz of an opening night growing with each passing minute. With time yet, a few acquaintances were greeted and pleasantries exchanged. Again, there was a certain level of unspoken curiosity from those familiar with Helen but not her beau, his reputation and the change in it fascinating them quietly. The short conversations were genial with the odd congratulatory smile or approving glance given to one or other of the couple as they departed.

The hubbub of conversation grew, the assembly excited but not vulgarly so, at least until a cry of "Holmes!" came from a boisterous male voice emanating from the opposite direction they were walking in. Holmes's eyes shifted from scanning for the number of their box, his jaw tightening somewhat at the sight of the blond gentleman hailing him.

Her gaze also turning to the unexpectedly loud voice, Helen was struck by the sight of one of the most handsome men she had ever seen careening his way to a stop in front of them. Mid-twenties at the most and immaculately dressed, he was tall, slim, and broad shouldered, his form speaking of power and grace. High cheek bones and an aristocratic brow were augmented by an attractive strength of jaw, a firm but slightly sensuous mouth and the healthy glow of the athlete. With his ice blue eyes and wave of golden blond hair worn loose to the nape of the neck, he all together resembled nothing so much as a classical Greek sculpture brought to life.

Stopping dead in front of them and barring their way, he jolted forward slightly as a second, somewhat unsteady, dark young man collided into his back. The darker man was almost as handsome as his companion, though there was a more feminine quality to his features. In addition, there was a slightly harsh curve to the lips that detracted greatly from his attractiveness, to Helen's mind. He was also vaguely inebriated and worse, uncaring of it, draping his arm around his friend's shoulder and leaning into him for support.

"Lord Duncan." Holmes inclined his head stiffly towards the blond gentleman, and then the dark. "Sir Charles. I trust you are both well."

"Splendid, Holmes," the golden haired Adonis replied, the mellifluous sound of his light tenor voice lost on Helen as a second blast of alcohol assailed her nostrils. It seemed Lord Duncan held his liquor far better than his friend, though appeared just as fond of it. "And owed in no small part to you, of course," he continued, clapping his hand upon Holmes's shoulder, a gesture entirely unappreciated by the older man, the resulting glacial stare lingering upon the nobleman until the hand was removed. Lord Duncan, however, was entirely unaffected, his open admiring enthusiasm remaining. "You have no idea how much of a relief it was to me that Father was able to get you to do that little job two years ago. You aided me greatly." The blond man smiled, taking hold of the arm that was draped around his shoulders. "There really is no one half as good as you."

"Your father is a fine man." Holmes nodded perfunctorily, ignoring the compliment.

The two young men glanced at each other and chortled at that in a manner that Helen thought decidedly unbecoming. One did not denigrate one's family in front of friends if one could help it. To do so in front of strangers, when she had not been introduced to them, was almost shocking. As if reading her mind, Lord Duncan Fairbrass turned his blue eyes to her. Despite their vivacity, she could not help but notice a coldness in them.

"But who's this, pray tell?" Lord Duncan looked Helen over with a murmur. "Holmes, where are your manners?" he said with breathtaking audacity.

"Why, Duncan," Sir Charles said, eyeing Helen closely as he tightened his grip on his friend, making them both lurch and giggle slightly, "haven't you heard? Holmes here has fetched himself a lady friend at last."

The detective straightened, their boorishness bringing a touch of colour to his face. "This is Miss Helen Thurlow, Sir Charles," he said coolly.

"Thurlow...Thurlow..." Lord Duncan frowned as if in deep in concentration, though it was clear from his smirk that he knew precisely who she was. "The shipping heiress!" he concluded triumphantly. "Why, Holmes...you've bagged yourself some money!"

Helen's fingers tightened imperceptibly on her beau's arm, not appreciating being reduced to little more than a cash cow, and her expression stiffened into one of cool reserve.

Holmes's, however, moved a great deal beyond polite reserve to darken noticeably. "If you'll excuse me, _gentlemen_," the word came witheringly from his lips, "we should get to our boxes."

"Oh no...no!" Lord Duncan held out his hand. "It's been too long since I had the pleasure of your company. I enjoyed our dining at Father's so much, and the talks we had. You have turned down my invitations far too often since. Say you'll have dinner with us afterwards, Holmes! Both of you." His eyes shifted once more to Helen, the ice of the blue in them seeming that much more real to her again. A shiver ran down her back as he murmured, "It will be far more entertaining than this opera."

"Perhaps, Lord Duncan, but there would be no entertainment whatsoever in it for me and still less for Miss Thurlow, I would imagine," Holmes rejoined, finally tiring of their ill manners. "Good evening, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening's...pursuits." He inclined his head towards the two men, Lord Duncan appearing genuinely disappointed before annoyance set in, and moved Helen away from them at a sedate but firm pace. "My apologies," he said to her as they approached their box.

She shook her head and smiled up at him, trying to put aside the strong and rather puzzling feeling that Lord Duncan had a very real dislike for her. "It is not your fault, Sherlock," she assured him. "They were the ones inebriated and uncouth...you were polite and..." Her smile widened just a little as she dipped her eyes.

His eyebrow arched just a little as her words trailed away, and on reaching the door, he turned to regard her quizzically. "And?"

Her cheeks coloured a pale pink as she gazed up at him from lowered lashes. "Protective," she confessed, her pleasure in that fact impossible to disguise.

Holmes looked down at her, knowing full well that one more comment from the two alcohol sodden sybarites and he most probably would have struck them both. His words were frank and certain as he opened the door for her. "You should not be exposed to the company of men like Lord Duncan and his particular friend." Her fingers stroked the inside of his arm in gratitude as he led her in. "Young men often develop admirations for more experienced men of their acquaintance. I'm afraid Lord Duncan fancied himself to be a soul mate of sorts. It was most certainly not the case. His tastes and attitudes are…" his expression soured somewhat, "unpleasant. In fact, if their fathers were anyone other than who they were, it is entirely possible both young men would be serving time at Her Majesty's pleasure." Holmes closed the door behind them and moved to take the ornate programmes from the two red and gilt chairs populating the box, drawing her seat out and holding it for her.

Once seated, she smoothed out her dress and turned her head back toward him, thanking him with that shy, warm smile that only he was allowed to see before turning back to peruse the programme.

Moving his chair just behind and a little to the left of hers, he flipped out his tails behind him and sat, his eyes automatically scanning the crowded auditorium. The number of opera glasses and lorgnettes turned in their direction was notable. "It would seem," he said, looking down at his programme, "that Her Grace and Lady Margaret did an exceedingly efficient job."

Her eyes did not move from their careful contemplation of the pages in front of her, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "I hope they pay attention to the opera when the time comes, or the Prima Donna will be most heartily offended."

He smiled at the image, his eyes flitting to her, his position affording him an excellent view of the upsweep of his sweetheart's ever striking hair and the slender lines of her neck running down to the milky expanse of shoulder and back exposed by the wide cut of her dress's neckline. He inhaled soundlessly, pulling his gaze away to look out towards the stage as the orchestra began to tune, only to find her perfume filling his senses. As usual, his methodical mind broke down the components, sifting through the ingredients that produced the delicate scent, though he was more than aware of his body's reactions to the stimuli. "Comfortable?" he enquired, drawing his chair a little closer.

"Yes, thank you," she replied, turning her head to look back at him, her smile causing the corners of her eyes crinkle ever so slightly. "You?" She wished he would draw alongside of her, but fashion and chivalry dictated that he sit just that little bit behind her, placing himself between her and the door. Still, she noted with pleasure, he was closer now.

He nodded, a small smile on his lips as the lights started to fade and the hubbub around them died. The theatre bathed in shadow, his eyes flickered again to the pale span of skin in front of him, her scent again rising as she wafted her fan once or twice, the air spilling backwards. Perhaps _comfortable_ was not quite the word.

He had felt like this around her once before -- his sight removed, senses heightened, vigilance weakened. This close to her, it seemed the residue of what coursed through his veins was enough still to reproduce those intense effects.

And indeed, as the overture began, the hum of his blood only seemed to grow in intensity. Forcing himself to focus, he dragged his attention back down to the stage below, on the sweep back of the curtains, and on the backdrop of a bridge in Seville as the story of the young soldier Don José and the wild freedom loving Carmen, which had caused such a scandal fifteen years earlier on its first performance, began to unfold.

The music and the performances drew him in. Don José was performed well enough, the tenor singing fine though his acting was a trifle gauche, but the mezzo soprano in the title role was enchanting. Her performance of the tricky role through the first act was splendid, her Carmen at once dangerous, quick-witted, and charming. But it was her voice that caught his more than usually eager reaction. Vibrant and rich, it washed over one like velvet, the passion and seduction in her voice quickening the heart.

He had seen the opera before -- more than once, in fact -- but never had it seeped inside him like this. Music so often lifted and held him tight in its embrace, sweeping him away to another world, a world of restfulness and beauty, a joy in and of itself. But tonight, he was too conscious of other things about him, the words and music only enhancing their power. And as Carmen seduced José, dancing her seguidilla, and the doomed lovers slipped away together, he became more and more aware of the woman by his side.

Helen watched, entranced as Carmen bound her José to her utterly, thrilling to his pleas of devotion as the Flower Song was sung. It could only end badly, she knew. The woman was hedonistic and violent, but to wield such power over a man, to encourage such ardour…it was a thrilling, if self-indulgent, thought.

So caught up was she that her sharply inhaled breath came loudly at the unexpected brush of his finger over the skin of her shoulder. Her hands clutching her fan tightly, she barely kept herself from turning, swallowing back any other sound of surprise. Her heart raced while he gently traced the curved line of her shoulder, his finger lightly stroking from left to right underneath the clasp of her pearl and emerald necklace. Her eyelashes fluttered with the rush of electricity that shot through her veins, as that same finger drifted down in a slow sweep over her back, brushing softly and reverently over her skin.

Holmes watched the transverse progress of his finger across the ivory silk of her skin with rapt fascination. The brief clash of steel below as a fight broke out between José and his lieutenant, Zuniga, did not distract him in the slightest as he leaned forward…the idea in his mind, its execution the most natural of things in the world, even given the close proximity of half of London's society. As in his work, shadow was often his friend.

Two spines in Helen's fan snapped, twisted beyond breaking point by her gloved hands, her breath shivering gently from her the moment his soft lips touched the curved join of her shoulder and neck, the heat of his breath washing over her. Her eyes closed, bottom lip bitten to keep the sound of pleasure that was boiling up inside of her from slipping out of her and alerting their neighbours. She could only pray that those around them were attentive now only to the opera and that he was cloaked enough in the shadows to keep their eyes from him and what he was doing.

She could not wholly convince herself that the reason for such a prayer was only so they would avoid scandal, and absolutely nothing at all to do with him having to stop.

But stop he did as the loud applause of the audience burst around them and the lights came up, indicating the end of the second act and the beginning of the interval.

As he slid back smoothly from her, Helen turned to face him, her skin so heated she knew she must be dreadfully flushed. She could barely believe it as she saw him -- he seemed so much the picture of composure with only the merest momentary flicker in his eyes that he was at all irked at the interruption or affected by his actions.

Standing and looking down at the three thousand plus people around the highly decorated auditorium, their applause slipping into the loud murmur of conversation once more, he turned to her and bowed slightly. "May I fetch you a glass of wine or punch from the bar?" he asked politely as the crowd began to move. "Perhaps some bon bons?" he enquired. "I'm reliably informed by a certain doctor still intent on giving me advice that ladies 'adore' bon bons."

If she did not still feel the tingling in her skin and hadn't seen his irritation, she would barely have believed that it had ever happened. Stifling her desire to query him as well as her own slightly frustrated reaction to the interlude, she smiled rather unsteadily up at him. "A glass of wine and some bon bons sound quite tasty," she agreed. "Shall I accompany you?"

Glancing at the moving crowd, he discerned that with so many 'gentlemen' at the bar it was likely to be something of an unseemly scrum. "You may if you wish," he acquiesced, "but your comfort may better be afforded here."

Looking around quickly, she nodded, still feeling the heat in her face and deciding inwardly that would indeed be for the best. "Very well," she replied before reaching out and catching his hand as he turned to leave, filling her voice with meaning. "Perhaps, on second thought, water rather than wine. It has become a trifle warm in here. But…" she paused, her eyes finding his, "not unpleasantly so."

His smile was slow and small before he bowed again and exited through their velour padded door into the gathering throng to make for the second level bar, leaving Helen with her thoughts.

The young woman watched him leave, both unable and unwilling to turn her eyes away, her smile still on her lips even after the door closed. The shock still ran through her at his actions, her mind turning it over now she was alone. He had seemed in excellent spirits upon collecting her this evening, eager -- even a little energetic -- when alone with her in the carriage, but she had not expected such…attentiveness. No single lady…other than of a certain sort, she reminded herself…ever would have expected it, especially from him. She had always known of his bohemian spirit -- the snubbing of convention and even manners in how he lived his own life. It would seem, now that he had at last crossed the Rubicon that was intimacy with her and grown more comfortable with it, his unique and unpredictable behaviour would be applied there as well.

The fluttering in her stomach at the thought was profound, mingling with a little fear and nervous anticipation, and the idea of not knowing what he might do next having the strange effect of setting her on edge and filling her with a most unseemly longing to discover it. She had always known his effect upon her physically, but ever since he had kissed her, and those kisses had progressed, she had grown more and more aware of…herself.

Turning back to gaze out across the auditorium, she discovered she was not alone in that awareness. With the lights up, she met the eyes of several others in boxes, catching their blatantly curious looks before they turned hastily away on being discovered. Her face flushed again furiously as she wondered again if perhaps they _had_ seen. Mortification spread through her. No. Keeping her composure at least outwardly, she inwardly chastised herself, her mind telling her to think rationally. Observe and deduce…even now.

No, they did not know. Had they known, seen, there would have been scandal, distaste, or amusement upon their faces, and they certainly would never have looked away when she caught them. She had learned enough of high society to know that there was no pleasure to be had in not letting a person know, discreetly of course, that another was aware of their indiscretions, and thus be fully justified in acting with total superiority towards the afflicted. This was not at all the case here. Here, their looks had only been of an inquisitive kind, people who did not know her but knew of her, trying to deduce for themselves what manner of woman she was to have swayed London's most confirmed bachelor from his course.

She turned her eyes to the now curtained stage, and the smallest of smug smiles began to play about her lips. A woman who brought forth ardent feelings in that bachelor, it would seem, she thought a little triumphantly, feeling a hint more sisterhood with Carmen. Opening her fan, she moved to subtly hide her growing smile of satisfaction, only to notice the two broken spines dangling horribly in front of her face and close the fan with a rapid snap, blushing furiously and back to hoping no one had seen her.

Unfortunately, someone had.

"My compliments..." came a vastly amused voice from behind her, "Miss Thurlow, wasn't it?"

She spun around quickly, rising to her feet as the blond personage of Lord Duncan wandered in through the door he had not bothered to knock on. Dragging Holmes's chair backwards, he sat down firmly in the box, well out of sight of the rest of the theatre. In the half closed doorway lounged his companion, Sir Charles, the harsh curve of his mouth she had noted earlier resolving itself into a smirk.

"Oh, don't remain standing on my part." Lord Duncan waved her down, his voice quiet and unobtrusive. "No need to pay too much attention to my rank. You are hardly the parlour maid." He looked down at his dress suit and brushed at it lightly. "But, of course, your unfortunate time in Camden Town has probably blurred your view on that point."

A flash of alarm ran through her, keenly aware that the men had obviously continued drinking and that her earlier sense of Duncan's dislike for her had not at all been misplaced. Instead of following his instruction, she stayed on her feet, straightening with determination to show no fear, only composure. Gazing at both men coolly, she hoped her companion would hurry back. "If you are here for Mr. Holmes, he will be returning shortly." Her voice was level and polite, not dignifying his rudeness of action or word with a remark.

"Oh, we're here for him…in a manner of speaking." The blond young man nodded and smiled at his friend, who folded his arms across his chest before delivering a withering glare at her. "And I did say you could sit down," Duncan finished, turning back to her.

"Thank you, Lord Duncan," she replied, not budging from her place near the lip of the balcony, "but I am quite content where I am."

The blond man shot her a brilliant smile. "Ah well...if you are _content_!" he said, somehow managing to make the final word sound as if it was the most pathetic thing she could have uttered. "And tell me, madam, are you contentedly enjoying your dalliance with the brilliant Mr. Holmes? Or rather...is he enjoying his dalliance with you?" He glanced down at his nails. "You really must tell me how you managed to seduce such a resolute bachelor as he with your..." he looked her over, the sneer in his voice if not on his face, "feminine wiles…when so many others failed so abysmally?"

"Perhaps, Duncan," Sir Charles said from where he stood, his voice thick with drink, "Miss Thurlow did the dance of the falling cheques?"

Duncan chuckled in amusement before frowning exaggeratedly at his friend. "Mind your manners, Charles. Mr. Holmes would never be so venal as to be seduced by money."

Helen could feel the heat of fury coursing through her veins, every word and gesture the men were making painting her some kind of unworthy strumpet luring the detective away. She forced the coolness into her voice with effort. "I believe, my lord, that my affairs and Mr. Holmes's are none of your concern." Her now two years' worth of experience with solicitors, board members, and financiers had taught her the lesson of not saying more than one needed to.

"_Affair_, is it?" The blond man laughed softly. "Charles...it's a fully fledged affair."

She gave him a rather withering glance and turned her head away, not deigning his foul mouth or behaviour with any more of her time. "I will thank you to leave, Lord Duncan," she said. "You and your friend both."

"I'm sure you would thank us." He smiled without moving an inch. "But you have not done me the courtesy of an answer yet."

"Your behaviour thus far, _sir_," she said quietly, her tone one of barely contained disdain as she continued her very hard fight to keep her temper in check, "has forfeited any further courtesies from me."

He stood up slowly, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might leave. Instead, he fixed a polite enquiring smile upon his face and moved towards her in an easy fashion, looking for all the world and to those who might see him across the way as if he were all grace and charm and merely paying a short call upon a lady.

"Mr. Holmes is a fascinating man, is he not?" he said in that same low tone of voice that kept the occupants of the boxes on either side from hearing anything but a murmur. "I came to admire him greatly during the time he aided my father and I. He has a genius that is uniquely rational and inherently masculine." His eyes gleamed. "To that end, I found myself particularly admiring his stance upon the female of the species. It seemed to me that he had summed you all up perfectly -- untrustworthy, illogical, and mere distractions to far more worthy pursuits."

"Your perceived _analysis _of his utterances lacks insight, feeling, and understanding of his unique perspective," she snapped as she drew herself up.

"Which, of course, you have, having won him," Duncan scoffed. "Very well..." He lowered his head closer to hers. "You must tell me how you managed to derail him so spectacularly. You have surely seen the curious glances thrown in your direction this evening...all those people wondering how you did it, quite a few as absolutely mystified as myself. Why you would reduce him so. Tell us what tricks you played to lower him to you." His voice grew even quieter, his proximity to her almost conspiratorial, the crude meaning in his words unmistakeable as he whispered, "And what he was like?"

She pulled away from him, a wave of revulsion washing over her at his intimations, his prurience, and the almost obsessive interest he had in her beau. Her beau's attitude towards women was not an uncommon one amongst men, harsh sometimes, but oft times she felt it a shield or even mere flippancy. Duncan's misogyny, however, was diamond hard, truly hateful, and masked something else…something angry and dark.

"Seems she doesn't care for you, Duncan..." Sir Charles chuckled from where he stood in the doorway, watching her move unwisely towards him and out of sight of the rest of the theatre. For the second time that evening, Helen's breath left her sharply, this time as Lord Duncan's hand closed about her wrist like iron and stopped her in her tracks. The act was so shocking that even his friend looked taken aback. "Duncan, perhaps you'd…" he began only to be cut off by the vitriolic hiss of his companion.

"I asked you a question, you hopped up seamstress," he snapped.

"Are you quite demented?" Helen flared, her words shaking with an anger that helped cover her considerable fright. "Have you no conception of where you are? Control your unreasoning enmity and, dare I say, jealousy, sir, and release me at once, or peer or not, I shall strike a note that will put this evening's leading lady to shame and bring every real gentleman here."

"Women," the peer snarled, but roughly cast her arm from his hold. "See, Charles, it is just like I say…hiding behind men, using us to fight their battles. They're all the same -- mouthing, yammering parasites who don't know their place and are intent on bringing a man down..." He looked back at her. "And this one is after one of the best of us. Well, I shall not let it..."

His words were cut off by Sir Charles crashing into him as he was thrust through the doorway. As the two men steadied themselves, they turned to see Holmes step inside, his eyes flat and hard as he took in the sight beyond him.

"Holmes." Duncan looked up at the taller man, his face utterly unrecognisable as the hate-filled one that had peered at Helen seconds before. Now, he looked to her like a schoolboy who had just been caught lax by the upperclassman he idolised. "We were just paying a call upon Miss Thurlow."

"I know what you were doing, Lord Duncan," Holmes replied in a hushed voice before looking to Helen, who was rubbing her rather sore and bruised-feeling wrist. No further information was required, and before Duncan could move, Holmes was looming over him, his anger towering as he raised his hand. "Give me your hand, sir."

Lord Duncan, clearly expecting a blow and well aware of the detective's reputation as a boxer, blinked. "What?"

"I said give me your hand." The detective's voice was like steel as he took the younger man's hand, his grip tightening like a vice as he slowly shook it. "It is only polite when one pays a call, after all." His eyes bore into Duncan's as he growled, his grasp tightening fiercely. "I should thrash you within an inch of your life for daring to come within a mile of her...or any woman for that matter." The peer grimaced and tried to pull away but was held fast without any apparent effort on the detective's part at all. "If it were not for the presence of a lady here or the scandal it would be to drag you both through this theatre to a more private place, I would."

Duncan moaned, his legs starting to buckle from the pain before Holmes released him with a dismissive sneer and with no one save Sir Charles and Helen the wiser about what had occurred.

"I warned your families to keep a tighter rein upon you and your pathetic cabal, and I thought I had made myself clear upon the matter of admirers. Onlythe respect I have for your father prevents me from pitching you over the edge of the balcony and adding an offstage tragedy to this evening's events."

Holmes quietened a little, but his voice carried such an edge, his eyes such hardness, that if anything, it was all the more imposing. "But remember this, Lord Duncan, while I found the man who held you to ransom for your past sins, I still know what those sins are and I know how to prove them again…if needs be."

Lord Duncan, his blond hair tousled and over his eyes, swallowed. "Holmes, I apologise. I appreciate everything you've done, you know that..." He raised his hand towards him. "You know how much I wish to..."

Stepping away from him, the detective opened the door. "Leave, sir," he said in a low voice as the call for the end of the interval went up. "Remove your unhealthy presence and take yourself and Kalamos there with you," he said of Sir Charles, "back to the gutter so the snipes can look down upon you."

With people returning to their seats in increasing numbers with each passing moment, there was little for the men to do but depart, Duncan moving with his head bowed past Holmes, hissing at Sir Charles to follow him. Closing the door swiftly behind them, Holmes turned and crossed over to Helen. "Are you injured?" he asked quickly. "Is it severe?"

She stared at him with an expression of awe and relief. "It is sore..." she murmured, "but not serious, I think."

Guiding her to a seat, he pulled his own in front of her. "Forgive me...but I will have to remove your glove."

"Of course," she replied, extending her arm out to him.

Reaching to her upper arm, his fingers slowly undid the button that helped to hold the long opera glove up and then gently rolled the soft white satin downwards, being especially careful as they got to the affected area. Drawing it off her hand, he lay it on the nearby chair, frowning immediately on seeing the extensive discolouration and light swelling. Rotating and flexing her wrist, while gently watching all the time for her reaction, he shook his head. "The blackguard," he said through gritted teeth. "I should never have left you alone."

"It is not your fault, Sherlock. You are not to blame for their disgusting behaviour. Nor could you have foreseen it. Who would ever have thought they would have the audacity to behave so in such a public arena? Had I been a more delicate woman, I would have screamed far earlier than I had planned." A tiny smile lit on her lips at that.

He gazed up at her as the lights started to dim in the auditorium, heralding the start of the second half. "I can only assume they asked you all sorts of prurient questions?"

"Insults. Implications. Imprecations," she replied, not wishing him to hear the things they had said to her in detail. He was angry enough that should he hear of half they said he would almost certainly seek them out later, and she had no wish for him to court danger for her. "And yes, there were certain _questions_." A corner of her mouth curled rather defiantly. "My refusal to answer rather met with his disapproval."

"Yes..." He nodded, releasing her hand and picking up her glove again, the orchestra striking up below them. "It would. Lord Duncan, as you most certainly ascertained by now, has no fondness for women...assertive ones least of all."

She inclined her head in agreement, not speaking as her eyes met his. After a moment, her bare fingers rose, the backs of them gently stroking his cheek.

His eyes softened as he relaxed a little, reassured by the gesture. "If you would rather return to your hotel, I would understand," he said quietly. "Should your wrist hurt or if you are too upset, I will willingly take you home."

A determined gleam shone in her eyes. "No...I am well enough to stay. It is only a bruise, and I would find it criminal indeed to allow such a pair of uncouth individuals to spoil what has been a wonderful evening out." A lighter tone entered her voice. "Also, I am intensely keen to see whether the drama onstage can continue to match that off it."

Proud of her, he rose to his feet. It was not the fact that she had not felt fear, but that she had managed to keep it in check. That she had remained calm and clear headed as long as she had until his return, and not let the experience send her into a swoon as it would have with so many other women. "Of course," he agreed, and as she sat further removed from the front of the box, he repositioned his chair so as not to disturb her by merely moving it once more just behind and to the left of her -- the act of placing himself between her and the door resonating with a far more practical purpose than it had earlier.

He precipitated her unspoken question as she glanced back at him. "I do not anticipate their return," he assured her quietly as the performance began anew.

However, while he watched the interplay on the stage, he found this time his mind could not engage with it at all. The heated events of the evening were ticking too rapidly through his stimulated thoughts and system. The two pampered aberrants who, like a deal too many of the _Quality_, thought it was their birthright to behave as they wanted with whom they wanted. He detested bullies, and there were none worse then those who preyed on women to feel strong and superior. Lord Duncan Fairbrass had no clue how lucky he had been to escape with little more than a badly bruised hand. Only Holmes's hold over himself and the waning influence of the narcotics had saved the peer a beating in full view of mixed society.

He had thought he had seen the back of Lord Duncan and his friends after he had rejected membership in a club they had started, the young men having learned nothing from their previous narrow escape from extortion. Men who had given into baser emotions and urges and tried to hide it behind a veneer of higher thought, logic, and reason. Failing utterly, to his mind.

The similarity with himself this evening was slight, very different, but clearly there.

His eyes drifted back to the young woman, watching her profile as she gazed raptly on the libretto before his gaze moved again down to the sweep of shoulder and back and the play of the half light on her skin that had so entranced him earlier. Entranced and enticed him to an act that would be regarded as audacious even in private. As he had left the box for the refreshments that even now lay discarded on the floor outside, he had dwelled upon it, berating himself, but finding no true remorse for the action.

His work still focused his mind, kept him singularly purposeful. But when he was with her, or in expectation of being so, he had struggled with the flourishing thoughts that had come with an increase in physical intimacy with her -- struggled with the thoughts and increasingly with the actions. It was just as he had told himself -- one step, no matter how small, inevitably led to another, more sure, more confident, until your pace was so quick, your desire to continue so strong as to be virtually unstoppable. With or without augmentation, he was moving with fervent haste in a direction that, unless checked or rerouted, could lead to their undoing.

And in more ways than one.

Lord Duncan's appearance this night proved that.

Holmes had warned her of the dangers of association with him, of those that would use the knowledge of their intimate relationship for their own ends, villains and those with grudges, all of it putting her in danger. He had not, however, foreseen the likes of Lord Duncan…men and, indeed, women without a criminal background per se, but with their own agenda, resentments, or who were merely crazed. They were harder still to legislate for, anticipate, and it only confirmed his correctness in being concerned at the start. And now that concern was heightened, shaking him somewhat. Not something easily done.

He had allowed himself to become too comfortable in her company, too unconcerned for the implications being involved with him would have for her. Now they were at least partially publicly known of as a couple, the possibility of similar unexpected occurrences would always loom, and sporadic as their meetings still were, he would not frequently be there to provide a bulwark or interfere as was the case tonight.

His eyes turned to the stage once more. It had been just over two years exactly since he had first encountered Helen Thurlow, and there had been many crossroads in that time. Some had taken them closer, some had parted them.

He found himself standing at another of those intersections yet again. His brow creased as the friction between Carmen and José increased upon the stage, the path of their relationship becoming ever more obvious to all.

This would require considerable thought, perhaps conversation with others.

A tightness settled upon his chest, unalleviated until a hand touched his knee, and he found to his surprise that she was watching him, having turned a little in her chair.

"You are distracted," she murmured in concern. "It is unlike you to be so unengaged by the music. Are you still dwelling upon the fracas?"

"That…" he agreed, "and other things." His hand slipped over hers. "There have been a number of distractions before me this evening."

She smiled gently at his careful flattery. "Perhaps we should exchange seats?"

"A temporary measure at best," he answered before adding quietly after a moment, "and I have no real wish to change our situation."

Helen cocked her head a little, discerning something else behind his words. "Sherlock?"

He shook his head, disinclined to answer and for the first time in the longest time completely disinclined to think, wanting to push the future away. Intent only on the now.

A stimulant for the mind is just that when that is _all_ one has upon one's mind. But mingle it with other natural stimulants -- anger, affection, attraction -- as he had tonight and it stirs the blood in ways that do not occur when alone in the privacy of one's rooms. Then, it augments the stimuli, the temptation…the desire.

Reaching towards her, he drew her, chair and all, further back into the dark with him. And as she watched him wonderingly, he lowered his head to place one soft slow kiss on the curve of her neck and shoulder. A second followed, and a third, the trail moving upwards over the skin of her throat, as satin smooth to him as her dress.

By the time he reached her jaw-line, she was trembling in his hands, her gloved fingers grasping the chair in an effort to keep herself upright, and with a soft moan hidden by the swell of the music, her lips merged with his, each surge of her blood intensifying with every brush of their lips. His body tensed as her arms wrapped around his neck, but carried by his actions, she melted into his arms, content to lose herself utterly in him.

Their kisses to this point had been warm and passionate but chaste. All except one.

There were moments since he had begun to court Helen when he had privately envied the swaggering attitude of Jake Maidstone, even if Maidstone never existed outside of his own imaginings in that one case in the Haymarket, the French harlot by his side. Maidstone had bravado, the freedom of his passions, and the absolute mastery of his own desires...knowing what he wanted and taking it. Now, Holmes allowed that part of him to surface once more. His hands snaking up her back, he pulled her tight to him, one hand cradling her head gently as he deepened the kiss.

A dozen fireworks exploded in her brain at the resurgence of a sensation she had not experienced for almost a year. A sensation which had never wholly left her memory. With a low moan and relying on that memory of the stolen, scandalous kiss for her response, she yielded to him.

The moment lingered, languid and hazed in a heat that clouded the senses, their coming together in counterpoint with the fragmenting of the relationship on the stage behind them.

At length, regretfully, his hands slid to her arms and with a slow inhalation, he drew her back from him, his irregular breaths filling the air around them. Silently, he brushed her cheek with his fingertips, his eyes dark from the effects of the moment, a tightness about his jaw that became acceptance and finally a determined sort of contentment.

A rather dazed and drunken shine in her half-lidded eyes, Helen missed the tension in his expression this time, her breath coming rapidly. The sound of the opera drifted back to her dimly, like approaching voices down a tunnel. Normally, missing such an awaited production would have aggrieved her utterly, but at that moment, she found she did not have the remotest regret.

Her eyes never left him, watching him avidly as he rose again to adjust her chair once more towards the stage before this time placing his chair alongside of her. Taking a seat beside her, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close as he settled back to take in what remained of the opera.

Still silent, no more words required, for now.

* * *

**_Authors' Note: Greetings! First of all, we hope you have enjoyed this chapter and we would like to thank each and every one of you all again for reading our little tale, and a huge Merci to all that have left comments. We do truly love hearing from you and knowing your thoughts (and we really like replying to you too...what can I say, we're chatterbugs!). Doing a quick tally, it looks like we have about five chapters to go on this little story...and what does that mean? Well, here's a tiny hint -- there will be a lunch date in Pall Mall across from a club for very anti-social men, red-headed men will be an inconvienience, a detective may or may not be dying, and all leading to a finale of sorts for this story. Intregued?_**

**_Right, I just want to mention again -- yes again -- that we've taken one teeny tiny liberty and made Holmes hazel eyed. Yes, I know he has grey eyes. And if you really want the not so long explanation why...I refer you all to what Mr. Brett's eye colour is. It was a dedication to him. There, now no sending us emails. :D_**

**_The next chapter has been drafted and is being edited, and we are hoping to get back on a schedule of sorts...so...2 weeks? We are alternating with writing our Snape story (which is loads of fun, though now taking a rather dark turn...eeep!). So hugs to all! -- Aeryn and Lfire_**


	11. Familial Duty

**_Chapter Eleven: Familial Duty_**

_24th September, 1890_

Amidst the comforting, familiar surrounds of 221b, Watson sat, his pen poised a half inch above the notebook laid flat upon the table before him, a far away look in his eyes. It was a posture he had retained for some time now -- his gaze fixed upon the foggy window panes being assailed by splatters of rain, his mind long since drifted away and his thoughts lingering on the same moment that had shaped his world for nearly a week and a half.

A particularly large droplet of water threw itself against the window pane, the dull thud rousing him with a somewhat startled blink to an awareness of his environs. A sigh followed as he lowered his pen in a gesture of defeat, the ink seeping outwards to blot the still blank page.

He had been working steadily with Holmes the last few days, and doing so well enough. When left alone by his friend, as now, he had planned to turn to his mountain of case notes, hoping to draft them into a somewhat coherent story involving an errant Christmas goose and its priceless, shimmering contents. However, it was becoming increasingly clear he'd get no more done on it today than he had yesterday…or the day before.

As he laid the pen down, disquiet washed through him again as he wondered for the umpteenth time if perhaps he should return home. No. Helen had been correct in her assessment, insisting that he needed to rejoin life again and that he would do his wife little good sinking into a depression of his own while Mary was so valiantly trying to battle hers as she came to terms with her own grief.

And so when he had completed his morning clinic, his wife's dearest friend had begun shooing him out of his house to take, as she called it, a daily constitutional. Naturally, his feet had led him each day to Baker Street, where Holmes had, as if in unseen communion with the woman he was squiring, immediately inducted him into a regimen of work.

He shook his head a little wryly. Not that Holmes would not have done so in _any_ case. There were almost always things to discuss, correspondence to answer, files to update. But as of late, there had not been the same abruptness that so often defined Holmes's 'requests' that he work with him. This time, the work came with a more definite tone of gentility, and Watson found he was immensely grateful for both.

He was a deal more fragile than he had thought he could be. He was a doctor; he saw and dealt with such things all too frequently. It was a common fact of life, of

medicine, of maternity, and it was the second time…it should not have affected him so. Swallowing hard as wave of painful memory struck him, he stoppered the ink bottle. But it had affected him. The sense of loss so much more profound the second time around.

The miscarriage had been worse than the last...this time resulting in a tiny, but perfectly recognizable body...a baby...their baby. One that had been fortunate not to have survived the process of such an extremely premature birth.

Mary had been inconsolable for days and though he'd tried his best to aid her, he'd been forced to admit failure. He was a good doctor, he hoped, and prided himself on sensitivity to women especially, but he was too close to this. When he spoke to her, Mary saw in him not a doctor trying to advise, but her husband whose child she had again lost. The failure to assist her and the sheer necessity to return to his patients meant he had little recourse but to accept Helen's kind offer of watching over her.

He hoped that having a woman about to aid in such matters, or simply to talk to her and ease her, would be beneficial...and it had. Mary was most certainly on the mend...though the pain of their loss was still evident in her.

"Devil take the man anyhow!"

Watson's quiet reverie was shattered in an instant when Holmes, dressing gown open and flying behind him, burst into the room with a telegram in his hands.

"He really has the most insufferable arrogance at times," the detective continued while striding across the room, hopping over a rather large pile of papers and ungracefully seating himself at his desk with a decided huff. Glancing up and intending to go on, he remembered his friend and quietened with a rather uncomfortable expression on his face before glaring at the telegram again. "My apologies, Watson; did I disturb your work?"

Watson, who had been staring at his friend in utter confusion, blinked once and then sighed softly. "No...you didn't disturb anything, dear fellow. It seems as though the Muse has decided she will not be calling upon me again today." Pushing aside the paper and pen, he turned to focus on his friend and his conundrum. "What's the matter?" he asked, nodding at the telegram in Holmes's hand.

"If the tone of _this_ is to be believed," Holmes waved the telegram in disgust, "_I_ apparently am the matter!" Turning swiftly in his chair, he leaned on its arm as he looked across at Watson. "By this account, I have been remiss in my familial duties, ill mannered, and discommoding. And as a result, I have been summoned!"

That only seemed to confuse Watson even further. "Summoned? By whom? Your father?"

"My father? Of course not, he is long dead!" Holmes scoffed, casually throwing a considerable piece of personal information at his friend's feet without a second thought. "Mycroft, Watson! Mycroft! I realise he is the elder and ostensibly the head of what remains of our family, but really, he can be most terribly pompous at times," he groused as he sat back again.

For the first time in over a week, Watson felt his mouth curl a little in a smile, though the guilt swelled in him immediately after for indulging in such a reaction. "How have you been remiss?" he asked quickly.

"According to my dear brother, in not informing him of the extent of my attachment to Miss Thurlow," came the muttered response. Perhaps it was Watson's imagination, but from where he was sitting, he could swear he saw a vague wisp of relief rising from his friend as he continued to cavil, "Quite frankly, given his information network, his not deducing the fact for himself after this long is the _only_ thing remiss about the entire affair."

A sigh of strained forbearance escaped Holmes as he dropped the telegram onto his desk. "So now I, or rather Miss Thurlow and I, are to appear by royal command. _Note_ if you will," he grabbed the communiqué straight back up again and waved it once more as he looked back at Watson, "he did not say..._if _you are free...or _when_ you can arrange it...but in essence 'come', 'here', 'at this time', 'without fail!'"

The doctor found himself straining this time to keep the unseemly smile from his face. While Holmes could be perfectly polite in forming his requests and invitations, Watson had quite frequently been subject to similarly phrased 'dictates.' Quelling just a tiny prick of satisfaction, he rose, moving to sit on the couch while ransacking his store of diplomacy. "That does sound a trifle…curt," he settled on saying before asking curiously, "But, if I might enquire, why _did_ you not tell your brother about Helen?"

"What was there to tell him to begin with?" Holmes waved his hand dismissively as he sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. "I had been seen in public aplenty with her prior to our courting. Afterwards..." he paused, a little discomfited by the memory, before rushing on quickly, "well, you remember the weakness of my position as a suitor. I had no idea how things would progress, or if they would at all! Besides..." he sniffed, "had I told him earlier…well…Mycroft is far too opinionated not to have given forth upon the matter, at length and frequently!"

This time Watson found himself repressing a small chuckle at his friend's familial evasions. It seemed even Holmes was not immune to the manoeuvrings of dealing with one's relatives. It was refreshingly routine. "Well, I suppose then that he simply wants to meet her. It's only natural, old man," he replied tactfully. "He is your brother, and you and Helen have become more visible."

"I am not denying his decision to meet with her, Watson." The detective sighed. "Merely the manner in which he has 'requested' to do so. Quite apart from the fact that I might myself be occupied, he expects me to accost Helen and take her to meet him forthwith." He rose and fetched a pipe. "And of course, he shall not travel to us...we unlike Mohammed must go to the mountain."

Watson nodded, remembering the last time he had met the rather formidable personality that was Mycroft Holmes. "Yes, if I remember correctly, you and he both mentioned how fond he is of his habits." Settling back on the couch, he pulled out his cigarette case and selected a Woodbine. "Would you like me to take a note home with me tonight for Helen?" he asked as he lit it.

"She is remaining overnight with you?" Holmes looked back at him while filling a black briar pipe.

Watson inhaled slowly, the white smoke from his cigarette coiling into the air. "No," he replied, "but she won't leave until I return." A melancholy smile flitted on his face as he finally spoke a little of what was going on at home. "She's been a wondrous help to Mary during...during her illness." A tremor shook his hand as he took another draft of his cigarette. "To both of us."

"I am quite sure," Holmes replied in calmer tones. "Helen has a soothing quality to her at times, I have found. And I am glad to hear that Mary is progressing." He sat down again, still regarding his friend. "But not surprised. She has ever been of strong character and spirit."

Taking another draw, Watson gave his friend a grateful smile and nod. "That she is," he agreed wholeheartedly. Looking down for a moment, he continued, "She has already made it clear she wishes to be out of bed as soon as possible. And I doubt either Helen or I will be able to keep her there for much longer."

"And nor should you," Holmes answered. "She needs to occupy herself, and there is nowhere that affords the mind more time to linger over thoughts than a bed. Encourage her to rise if you deem her medically able, give her small tasks. She must feel more than a patient."

"Yes, I know, old man...I know. But the..." The older man paused, still unsure what exactly what to call what had occurred without sounding either too much the medical man or too much the grieving father. "It left her weakened due to a loss of blood. It takes time for the body to revitalize itself in such cases, and I wish to be cautious. But you are right...I think some light tasks may be just what she needs. I shall discuss it with her tonight," he resolved and smiled just a little. "I think she'll be a little relieved to see to the running of her house again."

"Most women are," his friend said, lighting a match. "The very idea of another woman running their household without their strict supervision is abhorrent to them. Two together in one house are as territorial and stubborn as two bull elephants upon the savannahs of Africa could ever be." Both men exchanged small smiles at that.

"Perhaps..." Holmes said at length in between drawing on his pipe, "I should travel with you to your home, if you have no objections. It might be as wise to inform Helen of what awaits her. And then she may be properly escorted home."

Watson quickly took a long drag of his cigarette to hide the smile threatening again to show on his face, knowing that the courting couple had not seen each other for several weeks. "Of course," he agreed. "I am sure she will be most pleased to see you and shall appreciate the escort back to Brown's." He paused, a suspicion striking him formed from the memory of his own experience on the matter. "Have you told her about your brother yet?"

Holmes cleared his throat lightly. "No. It is one of the reasons I felt it might be best to speak to her in person."

Watson's eyes widened just a little as he stood to flick the remains of his cigarette into the hearth. "You haven't? I would have thought...does she know you even have a brother?"

"The subject never arose," Holmes answered. "No more than it did with you."

His friend just looked at him for a long moment before slowly nodding. "Yes, I remember...and you're quite right, it did not. But I was not being courted by you." He shook his head slowly, both surprised and not by his friend's admission.

"I presume she, like you, supposed because I did not speak of family, I had none. It is a common thing in people to fill gaps in knowledge with their own assumptions." Holmes shrugged off any suggestion of his being negligent in the matter. "Neither of you ever queried the matter; had you asked, I would have told you freely."

"Well, I think it is safe to say that your idea for telling her personally is a most sound one." Watson shook his head and then smiled. "I wonder how she'll find him."

The edges of Holmes's lips twitched uncontrollably, mischievous eyes darting to his friend. "I shouldn't imagine she'll miss him easily."

Watson snorted. "No...he has quite a presence. I found him rather extraordinary. Though that said, I wonder how he'll find Helen?" His eyebrow arched as he contemplated that.

Holmes grew quieter. "Yes."

"Yes?" his friend prompted, watching Holmes closely before continuing, "I suppose he's just incredibly curious about her. Not an uncommon reaction as of late."

The detective's jaw tightened. "No, not uncommon at all." He returned his pipe to his mouth, his voice very quiet indeed. "To that end the meeting with him is not entirely unwelcome."

"Hmmm," Watson mused. "Do you mind if I ask Mrs. Hudson for some tea?" he enquired after a moment. Holmes gestured at him to go ahead, his thoughts clearly still on his brother's meeting with Helen. Sensing something amiss, Watson sat quietly, watching his friend before asking, "Have there been enquiries, Holmes? About Helen?" His gaze flicked over to Holmes's correspondence pile, his tone a trifle concerned.

His friend's gaze drifted back to him. "Enquiries? None. Other than those from a few newspaper editors wondering whether they are free to speak of us now that the matter has become more open in higher circles. I have asked them to maintain their silence. Our attachment will not be the first time they have undertaken such a task." He examined the bowl of his pipe critically. "And I still feel it is for the best that they continue to do so."

Watson nodded, a slight sigh of relief coming from his lips. "Oh good," he replied. "Mary mentioned...before her illness...that there'd been an incident. I am glad everything now seems to be progressing rather smoothly."

"Yes," came the solitary answer again as Holmes returned his pipe to his mouth.

Realising, with a small frown, that there was something troubling his friend, but knowing too that he wasn't going to be much more forthcoming, Watson retrieved the evening paper and went to arrange for his tea.

* * *

Holmes waited in the parlour of the Watsons' home, the fire warm at his back as he watched the door, the muffled voices of Watson and Helen seeping in from the hallway. Their tones were quiet but carried within them an unmistakeable element of the positive. Mary Watson was most decidedly upon the mend.

Turning away, he moved to a seat and stretched out his feet before the fire, the small but cheery blaze welcome as the late September eve brought with it the first real chill of autumn. He inhaled slowly, the dim light of the fire and a single low burning gas light casting long shadows that were rather soothing.

Women were the one mystery he knew he would never unravel, and the business of childbirth, save in those few areas that pertained to his expertise -- poisons, backstreet operations, abandoned children and the like, was just as mysterious. Loss was always hard. He was thankful that the inhabitants of this home were starting to find it surmountable. Just as he hoped that the discovery, after all this time, of the appendage that was his brother would be quickly surmountable by Helen.

His words to Watson hadn't been idle; he truly was surprised it had taken Mycroft this long to discover the true state of affairs. It had become irritating waiting for his brother to call him to his side to discuss the matter, something Holmes had been wanting ever since that heated night at the opera.

In the days after, it had become increasingly clear to him that he and Helen could not go on as they were. Now that society was aware of their understanding, his presence with her in the public realm had brought her once more into contact with danger, and yet it also carried its own particular perils in their private relations as well. The physical manifestation of his attraction to her was something he now consciously had to control, something which both fascinated and irked him. Still, there was no denying the closeness they now shared and how rapidly events between them and, indeed, in life were developing. So much so that even before Mary Watson's loss, he had subtly distanced himself from Helen to allow himself time to think further upon these matters, corresponding with her only by post. But he had found himself too pulled in differing directions on the matter. It was as he had always known, attachment led to a dilution of logical thought. The heart clouded the head. Therefore, he required an objective view.

An objective view he could trust. One he did not intend to colour by showing his brother more of his attachment to Helen than possible before Mycroft contacted_ him_. The fact that Mycroft had _not_ called him to heel over Helen while they were merely attending events together proved that his brother had not thought him capable of this further step with her. Whether his brother thought him incapable for emotional or cautionary reasons, remained to be seen. Either way, Mycroft's would make for an invaluable viewpoint.

Holmes looked up on hearing the cessation of voices outside and the heavy male tread of Watson's footsteps up the stairs. Their conversation done, he rose before the door handle began to turn, his hands moving to clasp behind his back as he awaited Helen.

The door opened quietly, and the smiling if somewhat weary face of his sweetheart appeared. "Good evening, Sherlock," she greeted him, closing the door behind her and crossing over to him, her hands out. "It is good to see you."

Taking her hands, he bent to kiss her cheek, keeping his mental notations of her visual appeal firmly in check. "Good evening," he replied before leading her to a seat to see her off her feet. Moving back to his own, he sat, leaning upon one arm of the chair. "How went your day?"

"Busy," she replied with a sigh, wishing somewhat guiltily that he would sweep her up in his arms and hold her close, but knowing that such an action would not be forthcoming in their current environs. "It is not an easy thing, helping to run someone else's home. I find that it is much like the fingerprints you told me of...each style unique to each household. But it is worth it so that Mary has less to worry about other than getting well." She smiled a bit. "Though she's told me that she plans to be back to full strength in a week. And I do rather believe her!"

"As would I," he advised. "And you have done a great service to her in your time here."

"Not more than I would do for any other friend in need," she insisted before her expression shifted into one of a more eager smile, her pleasure at seeing him after so long a parting quite evident. "But how has your day fared? I will decline to say more of my own thoughts and actions otherwise you will have no reason at all to open the letter I posted to you earlier this afternoon."

"Your letters are always a welcome distraction -- informative, contemplative, and full of colour. Decidedly feminine," he demurred, his description of them causing her to smile, but leaving her not entirely sure whether she should be complimented or not. "My day has been much as I have outlined to you in my responses," he went on. "Consultations with the police, depositions to legal personages, and correspondence to those seeking my attentions…I am afraid my letter was more of a working list than anything of interest.

"Watson's presence has both aided and added reminiscences to the list. He has been filling both our minds with past instances in an attempt to write up the next of his tales." He folded his arms. "I do not think much in the way of concrete work has been done, for the recollections seem only to have drifted and distracted him. No doubt for the best." He smiled a little before looking back at her. "However, there _was_ something that may be of interest to you."

"Oh?" she enquired, interest lighting her face. "A case?"

"No..." he replied as he sat forward slowly. "A telegram. From my brother."

Helen blinked in surprise but managed to retain the presence of mind not to show how completely stunned she was. "Your...brother?" she enquired with deceptive mildness.

He nodded. "My older brother, Mycroft."

"Older?" she found herself repeating.

"By seven years," he confirmed. "He has a position in Whitehall and is quite...well regarded and well connected. He is often of great aid to me in cases, especially those with a foreign or political edge to them. In fact, he provided me with some help in your own case."

"He did?" she replied as she digested these new, rather astounding, pieces of information. Part of her wondered why she'd never heard of this man until now, and the other part scolded her for the slightly ruffled feathers she had about that. Inhaling just a little, she composed herself, determined not to make a mountain over the smallest of molehills. So there was a brother. People often had relatives they did not mention; it happened all the time. Never mind adding to the mix the fact that her beau was also an intensely private man. "Would you pass along my gratitude, then, for his aid? It was most kind of him."

His hesitation was only momentary. "You may do so yourself if you wish. He has..._requested_...the pleasure of your company at lunch tomorrow." Holmes rose from his chair, adding, "He is quite eager to meet you."

"I must say I feel quite the same," she replied with a smile, vastly understating her tremendous curiousity. "It will be nice to meet another Holmes."

"Good." He nodded briskly. "Then I shall inform him in the morning that we shall attend. He has made the unusual step of reserving a room for us in a restaurant across the street from his club."

Her brow creased in puzzlement. "Why, if I may ask, is that unusual? Does he not like making luncheon arrangements?"

Holmes kept his smile small with effort. "On the contrary, he is exceedingly fond of luncheon arrangements. What he is not fond of is leaving his club. But seeing as you are a woman and cannot enter the environs of the Diogenes Club, he must come to meet you." He paused. "At least a tiny part of the way."

She nodded, the rationale making complete sense. Men's clubs were most certainly not places a woman would ever dream of venturing. They were the sanctums of men, places to be protected for men to do...whatever men did there. Based on what she had heard from other gentlemen, Helen had images of them all sitting around drinking brandies, smoking, and reading newspapers while talking nothing but politics and sport. To be perfectly honest, she found the idea rather dull. "Of course."

"You are one of a very few people to have been accorded the honour of even that amount of disaccommodation on his part," he informed her. "Mycroft, if not at home or at work, is always at the Diogenes, which is as much his home as his actual residence ever was. It requires something of great import to break his routine. We may take it our attachment has been bestowed such status." The fact Mycroft wished to run the rule over her remained unspoken but implied.

"Ah," she breathed. "Then I shall consider his gesture the highest of compliments." Smiling, she rose to her feet, well aware why this newly mentioned sibling wished to break his routine. Even amongst men, it was not at all odd or uncommon for elder family members to meet the families of the person a member was courting to either approve or disapprove of them. It was actually rather expected. And in the case of a younger brother like Sherlock, the elder Holmes's curiosity must indeed be running rampant! "I am looking forward to meeting him," she insisted, quelling a slight tremor of nervousness.

Holmes nodded, glancing at his feet for a moment. This meeting was important, more important than he had ever thought it might be should it come to pass. It would not decide anything, but the encounter and discussion would be a strong pointer for him. He could sense a certain tension in her, but it was no more than would be expected from someone who was about to meet the family of one's suitor. He was glad she was unaware of the significance of the event in his mind, and he was taken by how much he desired her to make a favourable impression. Raising his head, he smiled. "Now...if you would care to fetch your belongings, my other reason for coming here is to escort you back to Brown's."

"Thank you. After this time apart, it will be good to be in your company, even if for only a little while longer." She smiled at him in return and touched his arm gently before exiting.

* * *

_25th September, 1890_

Sorel's on Pall Mall was fortunate in its locality. Surrounded by a great many of the gentlemen's clubs, it was the recipient of those members who had either tired of their club's dining rooms, or were eager to sample the skills of Sorel's renowned French chef.

As a result, the vast majority of its patrons were gentlemen, two of whom touched their hats in greeting to Holmes as he emerged from his cab while they departed. Greeting them in turn, Holmes turned to pay the cabbie and send him on his way before removing his pocket watch to check the time. He was on time, to the minute.

Not seeing any lingering cabs in the vicinity, he returned his watch to its place, placed his gloved hands upon the top of his cane before him, and began to wait, a slight frown on his brow. He was still of a mind that escorting her here from Kensington and the Watson's would have made the better impression upon his undoubtedly watching brother.

His gaze moved to the Diogenes Club across the way and to the window his brother so often used to scrutinise the world. On seeing nothing, he turned swiftly to observe the front of Sorel's, his eyes shifting from the dusky decorated glass of their main window below to the clear picture windows with their lace curtains above. One delicate hanging twitched a little. The breeze perhaps -- he turned away, doubting it greatly.

He'd had to bow to Helen's current calling, unable to insist that he take her from Mary Watson's side at the appointed time. She would not leave until Watson had returned, and she had felt it best that should he be delayed, Mycroft should not be left waiting alone. She would make her own way there and join him at the appointed time.

He waited upon the pavement, taking in the comings and goings of one of the most unusual stretches of street in any city in the world -- every second or third specimen of the large classical style buildings that made up Pall Mall a haven for the well to do British male. The Athenaeum, the Carlton, the Travellers Club, Reform Club, United Services Club, Oxford & Cambridge Club -- the list was considerable.

The interests and ambitions of the men within their walls differed, but their comforts did not. Without the clutter of the feminine hand, they provided a cleaner, more comfortingly austere style that allowed a man's mind rest without distraction. Lounges, dining rooms, smoking rooms, billiard rooms, card rooms, and in many cases, gymnasia and absolutely outstanding libraries, along with comfortable bedrooms, afforded the members a world of relaxation and male pursuits. It also ended the need to curb one's topic of conversation out of the regard for the sensibilities of women.

It was, however, always an irony, Holmes thought, that men eagerly shut themselves away from women only to spend a great deal of their time in discussion of the very thing they distanced themselves from. It was, without doubt, a very good thing that ladies did not know too much of their husbands', fathers', or brothers' conversations in that regard

Sorel's, embedded within this very male preserve of London, was not often frequented by ladies. They were most certainly not forbidden, but in order to maintain the male atmosphere which the majority of their customers found comfortable, wives and daughters were always escorted to the private dining rooms upstairs. Though, Holmes observed as he saw a gentleman enter the establishment through the ornamental glass doors, a splendidly garbed woman upon his arm, not all the ladies escorted there were quite so respectable.

He checked his watch again. Some seven minutes after the hour. It appeared she was delayed and he would have to play the advance guard. Turning, he too entered through the glass doors.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." The clipped French tones of Anton, the maitre d', addressed him to his left. "You are most welcome back to Sorel's."

"Thank you, Anton." Holmes turned, moving to the maitre d's lectern by the ornate door to the main dining room. "I believe my brother has acquired a private room for our usage?"

"Indeed that is so, Mr. Holmes," Anton replied, his English only slightly affected. "Though I think it has been so long since he has been with us that he had quite forgotten the rooms lay upstairs."

Holmes smiled. "I hope the grumbling did not disturb your other customers."

"I believe not, sir." Anton shared his smile. "Though we have endeavoured to make the amends by providing him with complimentary hors d'oeuvres."

Holmes glanced to the stairs. "Then I shall hope to find him in relatively good spirits." Turning to go, he stopped and looked back at the dapper, moustachioed maitre d'. "Anton, the reason for the procuring of the private room is that we are expecting a lady to join us. May I leave it in your hands to ensure she is escorted with all due courtesy to meet us?"

"Upon me, you may rely." Anton bowed as he moved to join the detective.

As they ascended the wide stone stairway with its walls of the lightest cream colour, Holmes allowed his thoughts upon the meeting to resurface. He truly had no idea how Mycroft might react today. His brother was a man far more open to pleasurable pursuits and emotions than he. He might have been considered a bon vivant had he not been so greatly misanthropic and so rigid in his habits. A woman in Mycroft's life, truly involved, would have been unconscionable. She would have been far too large an adjustment to his well-ordered existence. That said, Mycroft had admired quite a few in his life.

He had also commented many times on his younger brother's aloofness from women, though after a certain point in their youth, he had never pushed him on it. Mycroft's reaction to his brother squiring a woman after all this time of steadfast bachelorhood would reveal a good deal about what the older brother thought of the younger's suitability as a suitor, and more. _That,_ as much as what Mycroft made of Helen, would be a considerable factor in what was to happen next with them.

At the top of the stairs, Anton led him down the left hand hallway, past the mahogany doors that lined it, and stopped halfway down. Knocking politely, the maitre d' opened the door into a splendidly decorated dining room, also in light cream. Its pilasters and cornices picked out in gold and panels of deep blue-green stamped velvet were all bathed in the sunlight that came through the windows looking out upon the street.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft." Sherlock smiled at the figure by the same window whose curtain he had seen flutter as Anton retired, closing the door behind him.

"You know, Sherlock, at times I really do understand how Shakespeare viewed all the world as a stage and all upon it merely players. People are if nothing else completely predictable," came the deep voice of the tall, rather corpulent man still gazing out the window in front of him and down at the street. He turned to the younger Holmes and smiled slightly. "Perhaps we should request a rewrite!"

"Perhaps, but then..." Holmes replied, placing his hat, gloves, and cane to one side and walking across to join his brother, "that would make our work immeasurably more difficult." He glanced down upon the street below. "There are just enough surprises in the world to keep us occupied," a smile touched his lips, "and off balance."

Tapping some snuff from an ornate silver box on to the side of his fist, the older man chuckled softly before inhaling the brownish substance and regarding his younger brother with watery grey eyes. "Indeed!" He snuffled slightly in agreement, waving a large hand at the chairs and crossing over to sink into one himself with a grateful sigh. "And none more so than from my own family, it seems. Just when I had thought I knew you backwards and forwards, my dear boy, you do something else rather extraordinary."

Smoothing a crease from his cravat, Holmes kept his smile from spreading, his brother taking the opening as expected. "You find it extraordinary?" he enquired as he moved to sit opposite him.

"It was rather a surprise to hear about the relationship between yourself and Miss Thurlow from several Foreign Office members and not my own brother," he huffed reprovingly, "but none more so that I had not foreseen it myself. Dashed relations between France and Germany are taking up far too much of my time."

"Hearing it from a source other than your own is surprising, I grant you," Holmes replied, withdrawing the silver cigarette case Helen had given him from his jacket. "I had thought to hear from you about it well before now." Taking a cigarette out, he tapped it upon the case. "But do you find the news all that extraordinary?"

His brother sat back, fingering his snuff box case in thought. "Perhaps not," he said after at least a minute. "You were always more malleable than myself. All that courting business takes way too much energy..." his nose wrinkled just a little, "never mind all the required altering of one's habits."

He looked thoughtfully into the air for a moment. "Your views regarding the intelligence and queerness of women's minds are hardly novel amongst men. I suppose the only surprise comes from your rather fixed mistrust of the sex and your view of attachment vis-à-vis your work. This Helen Thurlow must be quite the woman for you to alter such a life long perception." His eyes turned back to the younger Holmes. "Though since she has managed for two years now to run the late Arthur Thurlow's business and foundations with nary a hiccup, I suppose she relishes a challenge."

Holmes smiled at his brother's light jibe. "I suppose she must. Even for a woman, she is singularly difficult to dissuade from something when she sets her mind to it. It was, in part, her tenacity that eroded certain misgivings. After all, not even a boulder can forever withstand the force of a river's constant flow." Lighting his cigarette, he sat back, drawing upon his Woodbine and exhaling. "She is at once both exceptionally ordinary and quite remarkably exceptional."

Mycroft's eyebrow arched just a little, a short 'harrumph' like laugh filling the air. "She is also quite conspicuously absent," he said pointedly, laying the snuff box on the table to take a sip of his whisky and soda.

"Yes…" Holmes straightened a little in his chair, a little of his comfort eroding with his brother's words. "She has been attending to the welfare of Mary Watson, who has been unwell, and to whom she is a friend. She preferred not to leave until Watson returned from his morning visits. One must presume he has been delayed."

"Ah." Mycroft nodded. "Then we must pass the time as brothers while we wait for her to join us. In that vein, I suppose I must do my duty as head of this family and ask you a series of bothersome, completely predictable but pertinent questions?"

"I believe it is the done thing," Holmes agreed with a smile.

"How annoying," the older man groused with a sigh. "Well, I think we can forgo the factual recitation of her pedigree since we neither of us care a great deal about that and I already know most of it. The obvious modification of your behaviour and attitude in regard to women for _this_ woman reveals your attachment to and affection for her, so there is no need to quiz you upon that matter." He sighed again. "Very well, Sherlock, what are your intentions in regards to Miss Thurlow?"

Holmes smile faded. "That _is_ the question," he replied at length.

"Ah..." Mycroft breathed, taking another sip of his drink.

"I find myself in something of a quandary, Mycroft," Holmes said truthfully. "A quandary Miss Thurlow knows nothing of."

The older man nodded slowly. "You find yourself deeply attached to her, but unsure how or even _if_ to proceed further?" He smiled just a little. "You would not be the first man in such a quandary."

"Perhaps not," his brother answered, "but there are circumstances to take into account. Not the least of which is her safety while in my circle of acquaintance." Reaching out, he tapped his cigarette ash into a nearby crystal ashtray. "I have always been leery of progressing with her because of what accompanies attachment to me, both personally and privately. My concerns have only grown of late."

"Something has occurred," the elder Holmes stated.

His brother nodded. "At the opera at Covent Garden. It was easily dealt with, but she was targeted for my sake, not her own." Holmes gazed at Mycroft. "In the course of my work, I have caused a great deal of anger and resentment. Even with regard to those I have helped discreetly, I hold a great deal of knowledge of a personal nature which I am quite sure they are rather I did not, and as at the opera, there are always those who may be considered almost unhinged." He paused, his brow creasing. "Logically, I should remove myself from her, but I find it..." he hesitated, the words hard for him in front of his brother, "I find it difficult to envisage doing so."

"Understandable." Mycroft nodded, vaguely amused at the signs of the smitten man he had never thought to see in his brother. "And logical," he agreed. "But to follow that logic onwards…if every man in a certain position which brought with it danger concerned himself with the safety of those he loves to the extent of ending or having no relations of that sort...then those in the military, police force, politics, and fourth estate would never reproduce. Although in the case of the latter two that may be no bad thing, I grant you."

Holmes smiled. "Coincidentally, a member of that very fourth estate, Mr. Buckle of _The Times_, advised me similarly once."

Mycroft frowned a little at that as he took another sip of his drink. It was unlike his brother to need to hear these things more than once. "You have no faith in her courage to face a bad situation," he said swiftly.

Holmes blinked. "On the contrary," he said quickly. "She shows tremendous, if somewhat foolhardy, courage at times."

"Ah, then her intelligence is lacking."

"No." Holmes frowned at the idea he could consort with anyone of that sort. "In addition to high intelligence, she has a passion…an eagerness that carries her on occasion and an admirable sense of personal morality."

"Then she is capricious, whimsical, given to flights of fancy."

"She is nothing of the sort, as you well know," Holmes eyed his brother, "given your already stated admiration of her handling of Balfour and Thurlow."

"Then even without meeting her, she sounds quite capable in your estimation, dear brother, of handling or at the very least accepting what attachment to you brings." Mycroft relaxed a little more, the quick barrage of questions at an end. "In the end, you will have to assess whether the advantages of a life with this woman outweigh the disadvantages." Placing his glass on the table, he looked at it intently for a moment. "But keep in my mind always that there is nothing worse in this life, Sherlock, than regret about what could have been."

"Except perhaps regret over what could have been avoided," his brother answered quietly.

Mycroft's gaze upon him was steady for some time before he spoke again. "I perceive there is something more to this than the simple fear of malign outside influences. You fear a more…self inflicted…damage to the lady?"

Holmes resisted for a moment, the conflict in his mind writ clear on his aquiline features before he sat forward. "I would appreciate your personal opinion of her, and also whether you can discern whether she is truly aware of the disadvantages of a more…" He inhaled, distinctly uncomfortable with this topic and its many intimations. "Mycroft, you are one of the few to know what it is to be close to me and my personal...foibles," he muttered, irritated at having to say it. "Watson is another, but he is far too far too good hearted a fellow to talk about me in what might be construed as a frank manner to Helen to ensure she truly knows what to expect. You as my elder brother are subject to no such constraints...in fact, one might almost expect it."

The older Holmes sniffed, though there was that hint of a smile again on his lips. "I see," he murmured in a knowing manner that, rather enjoyably to him, served to irritate his brother still further. "Your mind is indeed at quite a crossroads, brother…it seems that two extreme paths await your decision." Pursing his lips and his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair, he gauged the request. "There are some foibles, Sherlock, that you shall have to tell her yourself," he said after a moment, his gaze flashing to his brother's left arm. "And I am not experienced at all with this kind of thing; however, on the general...I suppose I can be of some small assistance."

"Thank you," Holmes replied, nodding curtly and patently ignoring his brother's other allusion.

"You will, of course, make yourself absent for that portion of the conversation," Mycroft instructed him lightly as he brushed an hors d'oeuvres crumb from his waistcoat. His grey eyes looked back at his brother, a smile in them. "I can hardly be expected to portray the full _frankness_ required with you seated there across from me, now can I?"

Before Holmes could answer, there was a short rap at the door and on Mycroft's call of "Enter!" Anton opened it and introduced the woman in question.

Both men rose to their feet, Holmes crossing over to the door. "Good afternoon, Helen. Thank you, Anton." The maitre d' bowed and retired as Holmes took Helen's hand and led her inside.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," she replied with a wide if vaguely embarrassed smile. "I am terribly sorry for my lateness. There was an unexpected patient at John's surgery, and so I kept Mary company until he was free." Turning to the elder Holmes, she smiled at him as well. "Again, I do apologise," she added to him, unsure whether to introduce herself or not...the penetrating gaze not helping her already nervous state.

"I am hardly in any fit position to have complaint for your tardiness," Holmes assuaged her, "and given my brother's occupation, you may be assured that patience is something he has honed to a fine art." Looking to Mycroft, he led her to him. "Mycroft, this is Miss Helen Thurlow. Helen..." he released her hand, "my elder brother, Mycroft Holmes."

"How do you do?" she greeted him, holding out her hand, her eyes alert with curiosity, already fascinated by the physical differences though she was obviously trying to restrain her reaction to something more lady-like.

"Miss Thurlow," he replied, taking her hand and bowing over it before releasing it. "A pleasure. And to answer your question, I am quite well." He smiled charmingly at her and waved a hand at the empty chair, a familiar gesture she was now sure must be inherited. "Do have a seat. My younger brother is quite correct; he is hardly in a position to complain. I sincerely doubt he has been on time for any social occasion since he was seven."

Helen found herself smiling a little, though she was not exactly sure how to take such a revelation from so new an acquaintance. Taking a seat, she removed her gloves and hat and discretely arranged her light wool skirts.

Once she was seated, the two men reposed themselves, Mycroft lowering himself as genteelly as his bulk would allow. A sigh escaped him as he settled into the chair before levelling his gaze at her once more, his expression all business. "I must offer you my compliments, Miss Thurlow," he said. "There are not a great many women, outside the aristocracy or involved somehow in the sphere of politics, whose activities reach my ears on merit. You are one of the very few. It must be said that, for a woman, the City thinks very highly of how you have attended to the running of Balfour and Thurlow."

Her cheeks flushed slightly as she accepted his compliment with an incline of her head. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she replied, her voice steady and clear. "I have worked hard to be accepted and ensure my father's legacy is intact for my brothers, but it would be immodest and untruthful of me to accept sole credit. I have had several wonderful and knowledgeable advisors from whose advice and guidance I have benefited."

"Yes...Grufstred works for you, doesn't he?" Mycroft stroked a finger across his chin. "Fine lawyer, has a future in politics that one should he turn his mind to it."

"I agree." Helen nodded with a smile. "He has some very strong opinions on child labour that I feel can only benefit our nation, and a very relaxed and amiable attitude that seems to assure one that he is always on your side and offering his full attention."

"Explains how he lasted so long in your father's employ," Mycroft mused. "Not an easy fellow to please, your late father. A near genius at business, but a man with very definite views and little time for equivocators." He cleared his throat a little as he noted his brother giving him a pointed look. "My condolences, however late as they may be, on his loss, Miss Thurlow; it was most unfortunate what happened to him," he said quietly.

Her jaw tightened just a little. Given his position and what Sherlock had told her the previous night about the depth and breadth of his knowledge as they had journeyed to Brown's, she wondered just how much Mycroft Holmes really knew about the matter. "Yes...yes, it was," she agreed just as quietly, her eyes dipping down to her place setting. Taking a silent breath, she looked back up, her gaze meeting her beau's, taking comfort in the gentleness there. "His death only showed how precious life is...how we should cherish each and every moment and the people we share it with."

Mycroft cleared his throat again with a slight harrumph. "Quite, quite," he murmured, shifting slightly in his seat as Holmes hid a smile, his brother's view on the people he shared this life with not quite in line with Helen's. "Still," the older man continued, "I dare say there are a few you are just as glad to have left behind. Your background has not always been one of privilege, and I would hazard that has stood to you well in the business world. Sharpened your senses, made you more aware of the evils in the world and those trying to dupe you. I'll wager it made you a deal less trusting and a deal more likely to exercise your intelligence and wit than you might have had to had circumstances dictated that you grow up in the cosseted world most ladies do, eh?"

Before she had the chance to answer, he glanced at his brother. "Sherlock, both you and Miss Thurlow are without refreshment, and we are in need of a good bottle of champagne to mark this occasion. Take yourself down to Anton, arrange for drinks to be sent up, and go with him to the cellars. Find us something exceptional," he ordered summarily.

To Helen's intense surprise and apart from a slight blink of the eye, Sherlock rose and did exactly what he was bid without demure. Inclining his head to her and assuring her of a swift return, he left her alone with his brother. She swallowed as lightly as she could. She had of course been expecting this at some point, just not so early on. Her mouth felt dry, and she almost wished she drank hard liqueur, such was the appeal of Mycroft's whiskey and soda at that moment.

"Now…" The portly man's voice brought her eyes back to him. "I was saying as to the advantages of your background?"

"Yes." She settled herself hurriedly. "I believe you to be correct, Mr. Holmes. My experiences in Camden Town may well have benefited me a great deal. I learned the true value of economics there -- the value of a penny and shilling and how to make do rather than spend willy-nilly. We were poor, but my mother and I had each other." She smiled a little. "I also learned a strong work ethic and discipline, and that has seen me through many a challenge at Balfour and Thurlow.

"It is true that I have seen some of the evils mankind is capable of...but these are so often caused by desperation of some sort. I have always believed in trying to find the positives in our lives as well as the sins. That may sound naive, but I find that people tend to try harder to retain a good opinion from a person than fight a negative one." Her eyes met Mycroft's. "I prefer to trust than mistrust...but make no mistake, I do see and understand what deceptions and hazards lay out there in the world and do not give my trust without good cause."

"A little wariness before trust goes a long way," Mycroft agreed. "It can save one a deal of pain later. An intelligent standpoint, as befits the tales of the intelligent woman I have heard this past while." Affording her a complimentary bow of the head, he then smiled. "Taking that intelligence into account, however, one wonders why a woman of such perspicacity and obvious openness should ever even think to take up with my brother?" he commented with blithe acerbity while picking up the hors d'oeuvres tray and offering her one.

She blinked slowly, taken aback by his rather blunt query. However, as she took a small smoked salmon bite from the tray, she found herself trying not to smile on discovering another common Holmes trait. "How so?" she enquired before taking a delicate nibble from her hors d'oeuvres.

"Oh come, Miss Thurlow." Mycroft returned the tray to the table. "My brother may be one of the most celebrated bachelors in the Empire, but that is not to say he is one of the most celebrated catches." He smiled to himself. "Although Sherlock himself may disagree, even as a child he always did have the most profound view of his own worth. Came as a shock at aged six when he discovered the world did not entirely revolve around his opinions."

Her eyebrow arched as she restrained the smile wanting to form on her lips, finding the idea of a six year old Sherlock Holmes shocked rather endearing. "Well, I have found most young boys commonly believe that they are right and the world at large is wrong. And I am sure you were no different," she replied with a tiny smile. "And though I cannot comment on how others perceive Sherlock and his 'eligibility,' I have found him to be most satisfactory." His amused smile at her way of putting it caused her cheeks to flush. "I…that is not to say that I have been testing him in any way."

"Now, now," his amusement only grew, "let neither of us pretend that that is not precisely what the courting process is. Nor that my brother is a woman's ideal. You will excuse my bluntness upon the matter, Miss Thurlow, but blinkered ideals and romances of the mind have a habit of getting short shrift in the Holmes family. And as its head, I must carry the best interests of its members…and those who might join our number."

Her eyes turned down to her lap, feeling a little embarrassed and wrong-footed before taking a silent breath and looking back up at the large man. "Do not misunderstand me, Mr. Holmes, there have been ups and downs, and I would be blind and rather imbecilic to believe there will not be any in the future. Relationships, whether between friends or couples, take work, care, and patience. There must be an openness of dialogue and a willingness to be part of something greater than just one's self as a single unit. Otherwise, it is doomed to failure. I have had to work on a great many of my own personal idiosyncrasies...as has Sherlock. Something that, I hope, has only brought us closer together."

The elder Holmes sipped on his drink lightly. "What then of his reticence to deal with, never mind discuss, those things that hold no interest for him? You speak of openness and dialogue, but it has ever been Sherlock's way to ignore what he does not care to speak of. That can be most irritating even to a man, but to women, who put such store in conversation, how much more so. My word…" He shook his head in thought. "If he regards such things as great literary works as beneath his time and reads only the crime news and the agony column in the papers, how much lower upon his register are the day to day happenings in a household or a business to him?"

"Does any man, Mr. Holmes, ever find the running of a home a particularly invigorating topic of conversation?" she answered with a low laugh. "He is an incredibly busy man, and I would prefer, as I know he would, that our dinner and evening conversations remain about something more stimulating then my accounts problems. I find his work and the puzzles and problems he devotes himself to incredibly fascinating as well as lessons to learn from. I should hope that I would continue to be enough in his confidence and esteem that he would feel free to speak openly and honestly with me about all things...and not just the usual withdrawing room generalities that frankly I can get anywhere."

"So you say now, Miss Thurlow," Mycroft replied at length, "but I wonder have you truly given sufficient thought to what you are saying? It is all very well to find his...puzzles and problems...as you put them, fascinating lessons to be learned, but my brother is seldom concerned with much else. He has a chemistry lab in his rooms, bullet holes in his walls, keeps ungodly hours, and is known to withdraw into himself for days on end. There are times when you too shall have difficulties or problems you wish to share. Over time such burdens can grow heavy when you feel you should not speak of them because you feel they are not worthy of his time, or because you fear his indifference." His voice grew gentle, a true measure of concern in it. "He is not a callous man, do not misunderstand me, but his focus and drive is such that it can grow wearisome for others who may wish to speak of other things." His lips tugged upwards in a smile. "Heaven knows sometimes even the mere thought of him is enough to tire me."

Despite the courtesy of his tone, she could find little in his words. She frowned, finding herself protective of Sherlock and irritated on his behalf that his brother, of all people, could affect to denigrate him to one in his affections. She had come here suspecting from experience with her beau that a meeting with another Holmes was not likely to be a usual 'inspection' by the head of family, but she had not expected this. It was if he was trying to frighten her away or…she paused mid thought, her mind turning to the empty chair behind her and how willingly it had been vacated.

Mycroft watched her closely, a slight crease forming on his brow at her silence. He was just about to speak when she inhaled deeply, her shoulders straightening and her hands refolding themselves in her lap as her eyes met his.

"Is he so unsure of me?" she asked him quietly.

"Ah…." He nodded slightly. "I warned Sherlock I had no particular experience at this; my subtlety clearly is not what it should be." With a sigh, he gave her an admiring smile. "Nevertheless, my compliments on your perspicacity, Miss Thurlow. And in answer to your question…I believe it is himself he doubts."

She took this in, her gaze steady before shaking her head in slight resignation. "Still."

"He cares for you a very great deal, Miss Thurlow." Mycroft folded his hands before him. "He endeavours to hide it, but in a man who until late rejected all women without thought, the change in him is as plain on the nose on his face. But from our words before you came, it is also clear to me that he fears he may be the cause of hurt to you."

"I have assured him of my understanding of the risks to…" she began strongly, only to be halted by the raising of the elder Holmes's hand.

"Not merely by outside forces," he told her pointedly.

"I see," she said with deceptive calmness. "He is afraid he will hurt me or at the very least, make me unhappy."

"It is evident that your attachment is deepening, Miss Thurlow, and there are decisions to be made by a man in such situations. Possibilities to consider."

"Does he mean to end our relationship?" she asked, trying to quell the fear that was roiling inside her.

Mycroft's lips tugged into a hint of a smile. "A man who brings a lady to meet his family does not strike one as a man who wishes to end anything. Sherlock has a great deal of confidence in himself. He affects to think a great deal of himself, and in a great many respects, he does!" His smile grew a little more. "But he cannot be the man he is, do the work he does, without knowing his own faults as perceived by others. The closer one grows to a person, the more one cares for their well-being, and those faults come home to them, concern them."

"Mr. Holmes," she said after a moment, trying to order her thoughts, "our faults are part of what make us what we are...they are what make us unique. And what society conceives of as a fault, an individual may not. I know Sherlock can be crotchety in the extreme, single minded and focused to the neglect of even his own health, never mind that of the people around him. I know he often forgets the niceties of social conversation or constraints in favour of his own interests or getting to the point...something I can often admire but do not always think is wise. I know he can be blinkered in his thoughts, brusque, arrogant, and self absorbed...but he can also be generous of time and spirit. He is a great brain, Mr. Holmes...but under it there is a great heart and a man forgiving of my own faults. The _appendix_, to which he so often consigns that part of himself that is not his mind, informs his actions, his sense of justice, his gentility, his chivalry, his affections, and that is as great a part of him as his mind, whether he likes to believe it or not. "

Her chin rose a little in defiance of any perceived weakness in her in this regard. "I do not think life with him would always be pleasant, nor perfect. But should we decide that that road is the one we are to walk...then I shall try very hard to accommodate him. But I have no illusions that the road will be a smooth one."

Her eyes were clear as she gazed at the elder Holmes. "Make no mistake, Mr. Holmes, I love your brother. I love him for everything he is and despite everything he is...and I know my place in his life. Though it is evident he does not know how clearly I know it. I know I shall never be first in his thoughts or in importance. It something I had to accept and come to terms with before we ever stepped out with each other. I know that I share him with his work...and that his work will always have priority. And to be honest, how can I disagree with that? He saves lives...whether from outright threat or simply the threat of scandal. He helps people...he helps his country. How can I put myself before that? Will I ever resent such a state? I don't know. I really don't. There are no such things in life, Mr. Holmes, as absolutes."

Mycroft regarded her, a little wide-eyed. "Well…" he said, drawing breath after a moment, "you are a forthright young lady. There is a great deal of your father in you, that much is obvious." He frowned at her lightly before starting to chuckle. "I begin to see much of what Sherlock sees in you, my dear. There is steel beneath the comforting velvet. Intelligence beneath the…if I might say…most becoming curls."

Helen found herself flushing at the burst of compliments and charm.

"Typically, Sherlock imagines that a woman's mind is too caught up in the romantic to consider the practical implications properly. While you and I know far better. Nothing concerns a woman's mind more than the practicalities of a romance. It is only the male that allows himself to be so carried away as to forget them." His eyes twinkled at her. "However, considering his past, I had thought it unlikely he would ever progress _at all_ on the subject of women. I am more delighted than I can say that I was wrong." He looked away for a moment before turning his gaze back to her. "Another tribute to you, my dear."

She offered him a small smile and shook her head. "Given our conversation, Mr. Holmes, it appears my effect is still somewhat lacking on behalf of my gender."

Leaning forward slowly, Mycroft reached over and grasped her hand. "You are a patient, strong, and loyal woman, Miss Thurlow; precisely the kind of woman a man as imposing, yet fragile, as my brother requires. Have a little more patience. He has come quite the ways with you, and if he is wise he will go a long way with you yet.

She exhaled slowly, her heart hoping so. "Fragile?" she repeated, her gaze shifting to regard her glass. "I suppose I never thought of Sherlock that way. Reserved, stoic, enclosed...but not fragile. But I have seen glimpses occasionally of what he is like underneath the armour and reason, and I suppose all of us have our fragile side." Sighing, she looked at the elder Holmes. "I admit I'm not completely prepared...but I do not see how I or any woman could be. I can only try my utmost."

Rising to her feet, she crossed to the window. "I know there will be those who will seek to use me and my relationship with him. That they may try and possibly succeed in harming me. And I have told him that my life is not that important should he be placed in such a scenario. Though I do not know if he will listen. I have stood with a knife at my throat at least twice, and have had a gun pointed at me or seen it pointed at him. And I was…" She turned and gazed at the portly man, "_completely _terrified each time. I think I shall continue to worry each time...it is impossible not to...but what is the alternative? Life without him?" She smiled just a little and shook her head. "You will forgive yet another example of womanly emotionalism, but frankly the thought of life without him is worse than any possible danger anyone could inflict on him, myself, or us both combined." Again that fear of Holmes's possibly ending their relationship for her own good stabbed at her.

Mycroft observed her without blinking, his gaze as intense if not more so than his brother's. And like his brother's, equally unconcerned about how it might make the subject feel. "Your answer is all that could be hoped for and all that is required, dear lady," he finally responded. "No one can legislate for what might come in the future. All that one can do is be sure that those who choose to journey on with us have given it every thought and consideration before they make their choice. I can see that you have, and I'm gratified too that Sherlock has stirred such a depth of feeling in a lady such as yourself." He smiled at her again, the twinkle in his eye returning. "If a little mystified as to how."

Her cheeks flushed a little as she returned his smile, her fingers playing with the curtain for a moment. "There is no great mystery in that, Mr. Holmes...certainly not one deserving of the mind of a Holmes to dwell upon." Taking another breath or two to still her nerves, which his questions had greatly heightened, she crossed back to the table and took her seat.

As she did, there was a knock on the door, and Mycroft smiled at Helen before turning his attention to the door. "Enter."

Anton entered, carrying aperitifs for Helen and Holmes and a refill for Mycroft, a second waiter following with a bottle on ice in a bucket, who was in turn followed by Holmes himself. The detective's eyes moved immediately to Helen, seeking to gauge her mood.

She looked at him after a moment, her gaze meeting his. She knew should be angry with him for testing her so, for being so unsure of himself and of her ability to accept him for what he was. But she found she could not be. How could she? She loved him for everything he was, how he was…and this was another example of how he sometimes was -- cautious, careful, uncertain of others. He was intensely brave in so many ways, but fearful in so many others. Mycroft's words became more real to her…he _was_ fragile in certain ways. She smiled gently at him, that fragile side of him endearing to her. She could only hope that today would be enough to convince him that her own fragility lay not with him, but without him.

Holmes returned her smile with a small incline of his head. Her eyes were clear, her posture not as relaxed as it might be, but more relaxed than had she found Mycroft's quizzing intolerably discomfiting. His gaze turned to his brother, who rose to give instructions on the placement of the wine stand and the bringing of the menus.

Taking a step away from the table as the waiter served Helen and followed his instructions, Mycroft laid his hand upon his brother's arm and murmured quietly and quickly with a smile, "Return to me when you have seen her home; we have much to discuss."

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Let me first start of with a huge thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, or even just dropped us a line. We truely are thrilled you are enjoying this story! Also, I'm very sorry this chapter is up late, but my grandmother passed after a long illness last week and I had to fly out suddenly to attend her memorial service and help out my father and his wife. And so, I would like to dedicate this chapter to her. She was a sweet, kind woman with a heart of gold, and I shall miss her deeply.**_

_**You will all be glad to hear we have drafted the next chapter and are already in edit mode with it (sadly, we're behind on the Snape story now as we've been completely distracted by Doctor Who). So hopefully, we'll be able to post it in a couple weeks. Thank you again for your words and patience with us. -- Aeryn (of aerynfire) **_


	12. Pandora's Box

_**Chapter Twelve: Pandora's Box**_

_14th October, 1890_

Rain peppered relentlessly against the fine, pagoda styled conservatory of the Day household, the cutting wind driving the downpour hard and angry into the darkened landscape of Hertfordshire beyond. Inside the glass, a pair of paraffin lamps highlighted the curls and eddies of Woodbine cigarette smoke playing amongst the leaves of the taller plants.

Along with a small stretch of gaslight, the mixed laughter of children and adults came pleasantly through the open door from the house behind. An agreeable sound, it caused Holmes to turn from his contemplation of the coming storm to regard the familial gathering, parts of which he could still see through the open doorway across the adjoining hallway.

Benjamin and Elizabeth Day had raised a fine, happy family. Their eldest, Emily, now fourteen, was on the cusp of womanhood, a beauteous, intelligent child with an infectious smile and wide expressive eyes, which thankfully held no hint of the trauma that had befallen her nearly a year ago now. A trauma she had been rescued from by himself and the woman who sat next to her, now holding her hand affectionately.

Helen's soft laughter joined with the others as Emily's two brothers continued the children's much rehearsed 'entertainment' for the evening before they would retire to bed and the adults would dine. The Days had invited them frequently to dine out of eternal gratitude for the return of their daughter. He was, of course, happy for them and the outcome, but was never comfortable with the role of 'saviour' that such occasions bestowed on him. Their earlier gifts and gratitude were more than enough, and he had declined all such further invitations, seeing no need for more. But, after numerous deferrals on his part, Helen had finally prevailed directly upon him to come, as they were friends of hers and part of her social circle here in St. Albans.

Holmes watched her -- how at ease she was with them and the family setting, and how she conversed with both adult and child. She was made for such an environment in every way. He…he had sat politely through the first of the children's playlets and recitations and then made his excuses to take a cigarette away from them…unable to face more and feeling decidedly on edge.

His eyes moved back to the bleak, wet cold beyond this warmth, and he drew again on his cigarette, his mind drifting back to the conversation he had had with his brother at the Diogenes Club after their lunch with Helen at Sorrel's.

Mycroft had made his opinion of Helen known swiftly and clearly. She was a perceptive, intelligent woman, expressively so, yet without being assertive or competitive and therefore unfeminine. She was also, in Mycroft's estimation, conscious of the dangers of an association with Holmes, fully aware of her own limitations and faults _and_ his, and far more tolerant of the latter than his younger brother had any right to expect. She was also a most handsome woman, and if Holmes were to choose to break his bachelorhood then Mycroft doubted his brother could expect to do better in terms of temperament, compatibility, and undoubted affection.

This only left Holmes himself. Mycroft had an opinion here too and was equally forthright with it. Whatever choice his brother made, he must be sure of it. Doubts in this matter would be fatal either way. If he broke with her and was unsure of his decision, it would haunt him in the solitude of the years to come. If he remained with her, the doubts would fester and create a self-fulfilling prophecy wherein everything he feared would come to pass by his own hand. Only _he_ could quell his doubts, and only _he_ could know which would be the easier and wiser set to quell.

The wind whipped a deluge of water against the glass in front of him, the glow of his cigarette brightening as he drew on it again. He had spent that part of the past three weeks he was not engaged in work apart from her, dwelling upon the matter constantly.

And he had at last come to a decision.

The laughter and a ripple of applause came from behind him again. It was an intoxicating, seductive warmth -- a contented family, a husband, a wife and their children. It was not the kind of family he had known as a child. But had it not been for those formative years, had he not been what he was now, he would not have found and rescued their Emily, and it was possible they would not be such a family now. He turned to observe the Days from a distance once more.

When Helen had contacted him with a direct plea to attend this gathering with her, he had availed himself of it, making up his mind that whatever the circumstances, it must be now. This was not the ideal way for such a thing to come to pass certainly, but he could not let this linger further. It wouldn't be fair to her to do so, and the weather aside, it would be a pleasant evening for her in advance of...

A heavy sigh escaped him along with his last exhalation of smoke, and he crushed out the cigarette hard upon the ashtray on the table beside him, the bleakness before him catching his eyes once more. The weather was worsening without doubt, the trees in increasing tumult of the rising wind matching what he felt inside of him. His reasoning had seemed so clean and logical on the train ride down, the words rational and simple. He resisted an urge to run his fingers through his pomaded hair in frustration as the reality of the matter struck him to the core…there was simply no easy way to do this.

He reached inside his coat to the hidden pocket within, his fingers tentatively brushing over the hard squared shape within before he withdrew his cigarette case, determining upon taking one more moment to focus in advance of slipping a more convivial demeanour back into place and returning to his hosts and Helen.

* * *

The winds buffeted the carriage as it turned in to the long, curved, and now waterlogged drive of the Twin Birches. The roads were gradually flooding with the force of the deluge, making travel hard, and within the brougham's shaking confines, Helen watched as Holmes looked back from the window to where she sat across from him.

"Yes..." he reiterated, continuing to divert her attention from the uncomfortable journey with the latest of his cases, "hundreds of red-headed men is what Mr. Jabez Wilson said."

Helen found herself chuckling at that, enjoying the moment and the tale despite the horrendous conditions around them. He had been poised and genial enough but relatively quiet during their visit to the Days, though she could hardly have expected any different. Social gatherings were never his forte, and he took little pleasure in being idolised. Praised for his work, yes…for his own self-worth was considerable…but it was tedious for him to be danced attendance upon, and it was hard for the Days to do less when they owed the life of their beloved child to his actions.

She owed him a debt for acceding to her request. An accession she had been relieved to receive, having seen little of him in person and never alone since the day of her meeting his brother, due in part to her attending to Mary Watson's recovery, but far more to his work. She had been happy with the impression she had left on Mycroft Holmes, but a part of her had worried over her lack of time with Sherlock as of late, uncertain whether that might mean anything given her talk with the elder Holmes and the re-discovery of her beau's worries on her behalf. Dissecting his actions in regard to her was a habit she had acquired in the days when her love for him was unrequited, and not one she had yet broken.

But quiet though he might be, it was with intense contentment that she had spent the evening with him. So much so that she had not fought at all when he insisted on seeing her home in this foul weather, even given that his hotel was the closer destination and that it was far more logical for her to drop him off first before continuing on home. She felt some momentary pangs of guilt on behalf of Mr. Reggie, who was at the reins of the brougham and whom she had condemned to another roundtrip in this weather. She would have to find a way to make it up to him. And yet, as she gazed upon her suitor's half shadowed face, any further regrets about her self-indulgence slipped away.

"I admit, I did see the advertisement in the paper. But I did not imagine anyone might take it seriously." She shook her head at the thought. "Hundreds, all waiting in line all for a position based solely on the colour of their hair." She tried hard to maintain a more lady-like composure but was unable to suppress her smile. "And what were the duties?"

"To copy out the _Encyclopaedia Britannica_," he answered, "from the hours of ten until two...for the not inconsiderable sum of four pounds a week."

"Four pounds!" she breathed. "A week!" Her eyes were wide as she stared at him. "And only to spend four hours copying the _Encyclopaedia_?" She sat back, again shaking her head. "Did he not think this sounded a trifle...odd?"

"Indeed," said he. "But his curiosity got the better of him, and when he went, everything was just as he had been told. He did what was asked and received his money just as they said he would. And so he continued on, without question, for eight weeks solid."

"I have to admit...it sounds more than a little suspicious," Helen mused. "But if he was being paid and following the rules, I suppose I can see how he would merely agree with the idea of this benefactor simply having been an eccentric man. Plenty well-to-do men and women certainly are! And from what I have heard, a good many of them reside in the Americas, as appears to be the case here."

"True," Holmes conceded. "However, Mr. Jabez Wilson is a prime example of learning to trust one's instincts. He first considered this matter a fraud, and he would have been well advised to continue in that mind. For after eight weeks, just last week in fact, his Red-Headed League was utterly dissolved and his contact disappeared without a trace."

"Ah!" she exclaimed, feeling rather vindicated. "So it was a ruse!"

"It was a ruse." Holmes nodded with a vague smile.

Her laugh bounced around the carriage with them before she asked eagerly, "It was to do with the hours he was to be there, was it not? They were too specific and at a very queer time for one to be away from their usual employment."

His small smile grew a little more at her deduction. "Mr. Wilson's hair _is_ a fine shade of red, but it was not the reason for his being there. And that reason _was_ diversionary," he confirmed.

"For what purpose?" Her eyes flashed with curiosity as she finally submerged herself in the second-hand mystery with all the usual barely concealed enthusiasm that she berated herself over later when alone. "You said he was a widower with little means...and since they were paying _him _to be there, the goal could not be any finances or wealth he may have. Perhaps there was something in his pawnbroker's shop?"

Her beau nodded. "It was possible that something there could have attracted attention. But remember, as I mentioned to you when we began, Mr. Wilson was in possession of an assistant. What use would there have been in drawing Mr. Wilson away and leaving his man there?"

Helen's brow furrowed as she considered this. "There wouldn't have been," she agreed with a sigh. "Unless..." She looked up at him and smiled. "The assistant was involved in some way with the leaders of this 'League'...after all, he was the one that pointed out the article to Mr. Wilson!" The words poured out in a rush, a triumphant tone in them.

"Excellent." As to the carriage came to a stop, Holmes leaned a little more towards her. "Now...to what end?" he murmured just as the carriage door was pulled open.

"Right y'are, miss!" a drenched Mr. Reggie called in, his voice muffled by the deafening rain. Behind him, Goodwin appeared at the house door and made his way out with an umbrella raised over his head. Derailed from her train of thought, Helen nodded before taking Mr. Reggie's hand and climbing out of the carriage.

Once settled in the withdrawing room, a cheery blaze in the hearth, hot drinks and brandy ordered to serve against the chill of the night, Holmes stood by one of the windows, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the dismal night. "The storm has still not fully broken upon us yet," he mused aloud. "The lightning must surely come."

Behind him, Helen sat, her eyes drawn back to him by his words and her brow creasing a little as she saw his hands flex, a sure sign in her mind of a certain anxiety and tension in him. He turned back towards her, startling her a little with the swiftness of the action and the all too typical switch in topic. "I believe a question lay before you?"

"Ah…yes…" Her mind hastily scrabbled to catch up with his before she cast it back to the mystery at hand. "If it were something in the shop per se...his assistant would only need him gone for the day in order to retrieve it...not eight weeks," she hedged. "And yet, he and his accomplice needed to be there for four hours each day..." She frowned more deeply. "I feel I am missing an important clue."

"Not so much a clue as perspective," he replied before looking about him. Reaching out, he unceremoniously pulled a side table between them before moving about the room and grabbing a number of small objects from the sideboards and mantles. Returning, he took a seat and began to organise them. "This..." he held up a Dresden shepherdess belonging to her mother, "is Mr. Wilson's pawnbrokers. This..." a decorative dish was raised, "a tobacconists named Mortimer's." Next was a small frame containing a painting Helen had done herself and wasn't entirely sure she liked. "This the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank." Down went a small vase. "The vegetarian restaurant." A deck of cards. "A little newspaper shop." A set of silvered coasters. "And finally, McFarlane's carriage-building depot."

She eyed the setup closely, noting their positions compared to Mr. Wilson's shop, an eyebrow arching. "I suppose they would not be taking a great deal of interest in a vegetarian restaurant unless someone was there every day for four hours whom they may be spying on." Her gaze wandered a bit more. "It could be anything...but given the excellent position of the bank across the street, I think that very likely had something to do with it." She looked up at him, nibbling her lower lip. "Do you perhaps have any other clues that could help?"

"Think more upon Mr. Wilson's assistant, Mr. Spaulding, and what I have told you of him," he replied.

She sat back, her eyes focusing still on the hodgepodge of objects on the table. "Well, he was slightly unkempt about the trousers and he liked to take photographs and often spent time in the basement developing them. Perhaps..." Her cheeks flushed. "Perhaps his subject matter was of a...sordid...nature and he did not wish his employer to see them?" She sighed and shook her head. "No, he could have done so in rented rooms with far more privacy!" Her teeth grazed over her lower lip as she suckled on it. "Tell me more about the bank."

Helen could virtually feel the evaluation of her progress as he sat back and gazed at her levelly. "This particular branch of the City and Suburban Bank is well fortified by walls, gates, and a vault beyond them located deep underground that is almost impossible to break into by any conventional means."

A quizzical look formed on her face, a flash of something in her eyes. "How deep?"

"It rests just above the sewers that flow beneath our city," he replied, steepling his fingers slowly.

The corner of her mouth turned up in slow satisfaction. "As, no doubt, does Mr. Wilson's basement. The assistant's partially dishevelled state, neat on top, but not so around the knees of his trousers was not merely a lack of funds or laziness…he was upon his knees in the basement…digging!"

"And so he was." Holmes nodded before proceeding to tell her of the thirty thousand gold Napoleons recently acquired from the Bank of France and their apprehension of the notorious master thief, John Clay aka Mr. Spaulding. "Mr. Clay has ever been an audaciously novel man. One does not often find a man of royal blood so occupied."

"Royal blood?" she asked, pleased she had deduced correctly but was now puzzled by this new information. "Mr. Wilson's assistant was of noble birth?"

"His grandfather was a royal duke, a brother to King George IV," he replied.

"But...why would he wish to rob a bank, if that is so?" she asked. "He has plenty of wealth...and certainly enough privilege."

He inclined his head slowly. "Some men steal to survive, or because they must, or because it's all they have ever known. Mr. Clay has none of those excuses...not even greed, for as you say he was never in need of the money. He risked all -- his freedom, his good name, and scandal -- all for the sake of a thrill."

"A common state for many in Society," Helen replied with a sigh, thinking on it. "Many drift along rather purposelessly and with little or no direction save their leisure." She shook her head. "It does not surprise me that he would turn to crime solely for that reason."

"To exercise a good mind only in the service of excitement is a waste of one's potential," Holmes replied firmly. "You are not challenging yourself, merely entertaining yourself, and that devalues everything you do. There are sensations aplenty to be had in this world, especially for gentlemen who can afford it...they should take them if they must, but use their intelligence to a better end."

"I agree," she replied, casting him a smile at his vehemence upon the matter.

With a slight knock, Goodwin entered with their beverages and drew the curtains tighter against the foul night outside before withdrawing again. Holmes took his brandy, but did not sit, standing instead as he examined the hue, while Helen poured her hot chocolate, watching him from under lowered lashes as she did so.

She shifted slightly on the couch. There was a definite tension in him; something had not abated since they had left the Days' and therefore it had nothing to do with them. She raised her cup to her lips, letting the chocolate warm and soothe as she waited for him to speak.

"Mr. Clay," he said at length, "raises an interesting discussion point. Namely the expectations we place upon a man because of the strictures of society, or because we have formed an opinion about his nature. We as a society find it difficult to fathom when people step from their assigned roles, failing to take into account individual foibles or changing circumstances." He looked to her. "For instance, can you perceive of Goodwin taking a liberty with your maid Mary?"

Helen blinked, surprised at the tangent of his thoughts, and placed her cup and saucer back upon the table. "_Goodwin?_ No, of course not," she replied, the idea preposterous. "It's not in his nature...regardless of his duties, he is a most upright and moral man."

"Not in his nature?" he enquired. "He is a man. It is therefore well within his nature. It is, with some few aberrations, within all men's natures. Nature is what civilisation struggles against every day." He indicated the raging storm outside with a sweep of his hand.

A tiny smile flitted on her lips in reply. "Then I misspoke...perhaps I should have said his principles," she amended.

"Perhaps..." he agreed, "but even principled men and women act strangely when the provocation or circumstance demands. Else why do otherwise good men and women involve themselves in _affaires_, or place themselves in positions that may see them brought low?"

She nodded, accepting that. "Then I suppose we can never really know." She reached down to retrieve her hot chocolate. "I suppose that is the beauty of life -- the unpredictability."

"The beauty... and the danger of it. That it might bring a peer to an unrepentant life of crime, a previously loyal wife to an _affaire_ or..." he swirled his glass once more, "a bachelor to consider his situation."

A sudden tension suffused her at the mention of the last, and a light frown formed on her face before she smoothed it away with effort. "A bachelor...or a particular one?" she enquired, her voice soft and gentle.

"Are not all bachelors similar?" he answered with what she considered to be studied evasion.

"Not all," she replied, her tone not wavering, though she could feel her tension rising. "Some are rather more confirmed in their state."

His jaw tightened slowly. "Yes. Some are. By inclination, duty, or both."

Helen stiffened as she saw him do so, her stays starting to feel tight and uncomfortable. "A change in one's life of a profound nature is never easy...and for some more difficult than others," she commented rather than agreed, sipping on her chocolate in an effort to disguise the tension that was quickly becoming worry, her stomach starting to churn. She wished to heaven she could sense what he was thinking, what was to come from those lips…and yet at the same time she would give anything not to know, never to hear what she felt was hovering there.

"True." He drew himself up slowly, her dread rising with every word. "But there are moments that present themselves in everyone's life when choices must be made one way or another. Where one knows one must choose a fork in the road and choose it quickly, or risk disaster in not doing so."

A sudden crack against the window cut through the rising strain in the room.

Jumping in her seat and spilling a little of her chocolate upon the rug, Helen barely suppressed a startled noise before rising to her feet and crossing the room to pull back the curtains. The rain was coming down so forcefully it was like a sheet of water down the glass. Across one window pane, within the frame, was a spidery web of cracks where something, most probably a small loosened branch, had been hurled with considerable force by the wind.

"Sherlock...it's ghastly out there," she exclaimed, turning back to him.

He moved to join her, looking first at the damage and then out at the gale force storm that was blowing, the staunch twin birches in the heart of the front lawn being blown back and forth furiously. Something unreadable that was almost a flinch passed across his face as she gazed up at him, and then his eyes met hers. "I must go, before the journey back to my hotel becomes untenable."

"No." She pulled back the curtain to block out the sight. "The only people out there should be ones with gills," she insisted. "I cannot in good conscience allow you or Mr. Reggie back out in that."

He took a step away from her, as if suddenly aware of their close proximity. "There is no need to disturb Mr. Reggie; I can take a horse and ride back to town."

She frowned, quite conscious of why he was insisting on such a foolhardy thing. "Sherlock, I am as well aware as you of the proprieties and what talk may or may not occur...but is it worth risking your life over? The wind is hurling missiles, and I can barely see two feet in front of me, and I am inside! Never mind that you will likely catch your death of cold on the soaking ride back," she pointed out. "No, caution must outweigh decorum when necessary. We have plenty of rooms. I am sure Goodwin will be glad to ready you one." Her chin rose a little. "Logically...I believe you will see I am correct."

He regarded her in silence for a long moment, his conflict clear to her in his entire demeanour. To her mind, he appeared to be wrestling with far more than the question of mere respectability. In that instant she found herself holding her breath, so much so that a profound sense of reprieve flooded through her as she observed the amusement that gradually came to tinge his face. "As you feel strongly enough to quote logic at me, Miss Thurlow, I concede the point." He inclined his head. "And thank you for the offer."

As his lips twitched slightly, she suddenly felt a profound sense of gratitude towards the storm, as if it had somehow intervened on her behalf. The tension had seemed to ease from him with the decision to stay. Though she, as she crossed over to ring the bell for Goodwin, could not help but infer that that meant whatever he had to say to her, he felt he could not or would not be able to stay afterwards.

Goodwin responded swiftly. "Yes, miss?" the butler enquired.

"Please inform Mr. Reggie that he will not have to go back out tonight," she told him, knowing how grateful her groomsman would be. "Also, please have Mary ready a room for Mr. Holmes. He will be staying with us tonight since this weather is so treacherous."

If Goodwin was surprised, he gave no sign of it. "Of course, miss. I'll have Mary attend to it at once, and I shall inform Mr. Reggie. The stable boy has just advised him that the roads to the east of here are completely submerged; no doubt the roads to the west will soon be as bad. I daresay the carriage would have had tremendous difficulty making it back to town." With a slight bow, he left to attend to her requests.

Holmes walked a little way across the room, his hands clasped behind his back again. "Further vindication of your logic."

She fixed a smile on her face before she turned, and felt another surge of relief as she saw him more at ease. Returning to the couch, she seated herself and arranged her skirts. "It was quite easy to deduce." She did her best to tease him, though relief soon gave way to the realisation of this being at best only a temporary reprieve. She should ask him, she knew. Ask him what it was he was dwelling upon, what it was he wished to say to her. But it was impolite to pose such a question, and she was far too terrified of the answer…especially if it meant for awkwardness or worse while he was staying under her roof.

"I stand in awe of your reasoning," he answered, crossing back to the table that still contained his tableaux regarding the Red-Headed League, and began to return the objects to their prior homes. "Though I shall prevail upon Goodwin for a spare nightshirt if possible."

She blinked, not having thought of that, and the practicality brought her out of herself somewhat. "Of course," she said with a nod, watching him move about the room. "I doubt you would fit into any of Matthew's or Andrew's...they may be growing like weeds but they are most certainly not as tall as you." The image of her beau in her nine year old brother's nightshirt flashed across her mind amusingly before she flushed at the impropriety of the thought. But it was a welcome one all the same, serving to distract her for a moment from thoughts of the future.

He failed to notice, his attention seemingly focused on replacing the rest of the objects in his hands. "Your mother has retired early this evening."

Refilling and retrieving her chocolate once more, she nodded, endeavouring to keep her words from sounding tense or hollow. "Yes, she will have retired while we were at the party. Not an unusual occurrence. She is an early riser more than a night owl."

"Country hours," he commented upon the habit. "Early to bed, early to rise...Watson, as is his way," a weary amusement tinged his voice while speaking of his friend's proclivities towards the romantic, "was of the opinion that now that she is much recovered, she would make some gentleman farmer a fine wife."

"Perhaps," Helen agreed slowly. "Though I doubt my mother will remarry." She glanced over at the curtained windows for a moment. "I do not mean that she could not love again or find it in a man other than my father. I think she simply enjoys her freedom too much."

"I am glad to hear it, though I am glad too to hear that you feel her heart is flexible enough to recover and find love with another." He picked up her painting, the final thing to be replaced. "All hearts should be able to recover from loss," he murmured, looking at her work and then at her.

Her own heart thumped noisily in her chest at his words, her eyes coming back to him and a stifling feeling settling over her chest again. Rising to her feet, cup still in hand, she crossed over to him, her gaze settling on the picture as well as she tried to sort her thoughts and feelings…unable to stem the growing ache inside her, even as she steeled herself. "I believe the heart is often stronger than we credit it," she said softly, her tone conveying a philosophical mood that she did not feel. "Plus, I have learned that in life there are rarely absolutes."

His gaze turned to her. "Except perhaps in your opinion of Goodwin's upstanding character," he replied, catching her unawares with his blithe comment.

"Except that," she agreed with a blink, her head starting to spin very slightly as she felt the ground beneath her shift once more. She had almost forgotten what this was like, what he could do to her when she was uncertain of his actions and thoughts. She felt transported back to how things had been two years ago when she'd lived in a constant state of near bewilderment.

And then he passed on again, disorienting her further as he held her painting up to the light. "You were troubled with this," he observed.

Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to steady herself, finally following his gaze back to the small landscape. "Not troubled..." She swallowed, trying to find the conversational words in her increasingly turbulent mind. "More...irritated. I was never very good at painting, though I know it a favoured skill in young ladies, and it is frustrating to try and capture a beautiful sight and fail utterly at it."

"It shows," he replied, seemingly unconscious of any slight to her talent as he raised a finger. "There is a subtle variation in colour tones that indicates a break in the process. You came back to it after a time to try again, but grew frustrated. These strokes here are loose and imprecise, indicating a desire merely to finish rather than 'complete' the work."

She peered at the small painting. "Does it really?" she asked in a disappointed voice, allowing the topic to siphon off some tiny part of that emotion bubbling inside of her. "I thought perhaps I had at least avoided that." She sighed and shook her head a little. "I shall have to replace it then...perhaps, one of my mother's pictures. She is a much better artist."

"I did not wish to discourage you," he answered with a frown, as if finally noting her subdued reaction to him. "In fact, I feel that you should try again. It is not a matter of your being a poor artist, merely that what you paint does not resonate with you. Consider working this time with a subject that interests you more. Your brothers perhaps? Not everyone is suited to the study of flowers and still life."

"Perhaps…" She moved to draw away when the rolling sound of thunder flooded the room, causing her to jump, badly startled.

He looked from her discomfort to the window. "It is here at last...and almost upon us by the sounds of it," he said quietly as the wind shrieked outside. "I admit I am glad to be here. It is not a fit night for man nor beast, and your home is a comforting place."

Shivering lightly still, she pulled her eyes away from the window and gazed up at him. "You will always be most welcome here," she told him, her voice soft, amazing herself by keeping it steady and uninflected by the fears inside her. She knew her words were absolutely true, no matter what was to come.

"From our evening at the Days' and their revelation of the locality's regard for you, it appears you have succeeded in creating a home where all are welcome."

Her cheeks flushed, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before she moved to the couch. "You are too kind."

"A charge hardly ever levelled at me," he assured her with a small smile as she sat.

"That does not make it any less true." She looked up at him, her eyes full of her appreciation for him, the sense of ending heightening that appreciation to a point where she could barely breathe for it.

"Miss Thurlow, don't you think you have done enough damage to my reputation without insisting on that too?" His tone held a hint of teasing as he sat opposite her.

"I do not think it shall do any damage at all." She turned her gaze away, hoping vainly that by not looking at him, this tension would ease somehow. "I shall keep it in the strictest confidence," she murmured in a hazy attempt at levity, her eyes drifting back to his face, for she seemed unable to keep her gaze away from him.

A corner of his mouth curled. "Which...if my limited translation of the feminine usage of the term holds correct...means that only three or four of your closest friends, and..." he pursed his lips, gauging carefully, "two close female relatives will be told."

"Nonsense. Two friends at the very most," she replied, marvelling at the lightness of her words when she felt this way, but still more at his poise, his ability to compartmentalise his mind and appear so relaxed now his decision was deferred.

"I stand corrected," he said with a smile and an affection in his eyes that only exacerbated the ache inside her to almost indescribable proportions, and suddenly she wanted him to touch her, to hold her like never before. He cared for her…he _had_ to care for her. She could see it in him, feel it when he looked at her. But he was putting her aside, putting her away so he could continue on as he was, as he had been for the greater good...and for what he thought was _her_ good.

She almost broke, there and then, almost let the words come, demanding to hear his decision, and release the storm of tears she was sure would rival the one raking the world outside. But the lightest of knocks upon the door that heralded Goodwin's return caught her and on her word, he entered. "Mary has prepared a room for you near the young masters' rooms, Mr. Holmes sir."

The detective inclined his head at the butler. "Thank you, Goodwin."

"Not at all, sir," Goodwin demurred before looking to the mistress of the house. "Will there be anything else, miss? If not, I will turn out the gaslight in the rest of the house and inform Mary and Mrs. Reggie that they may take to their beds to ride out the rest of this foul evening. Though with the sound of the storm, it will be a wonder if any of us sleep at all." He tutted at the windows disapprovingly.

"Of course, Goodwin," she said, finding temporary refuge in her role as mistress and host. "Though would you be so kind as to see if perhaps we can find a nightshirt for Mr. Holmes to use tonight?"

Goodwin's dark eyes turned to Holmes. "If Mr. Holmes does not mind a slight shortness in the leg, miss, I believe that one of mine might best be suited to the job. If that is acceptable to you both, I can lay one out in the guest room."

"That would be wonderful, thank you, Goodwin. You are most kind," she replied with a wan smile. "And after, please do not hesitate to retire for the evening yourself. We shall be doing so directly."

"Yes, miss. Thank you, miss." He bowed lightly, moving to withdraw. "I wish you both a good night's sleep."

"Good night, Goodwin," she returned with an incline of her head, quite sure, storm or no storm, his wish on her behalf was in vain.

"I hope the roads have cleared somewhat by morning to afford an early return to St. Albans and the train for London," Holmes commented as they were left alone, his eyes turning to the curtains.

Helen rose a little numbly, acting on her decision to retire, needing to find a way to deal with this before the morning came and with it, the probable ending of his suit. "You are engaged again so soon?" she asked. _Or merely keen to be away from here?_ she wondered.

Holmes shook his head, rising from his seat as she did. "Nothing so interesting as a case, merely a consultation with an acquaintance of yours. The Queen's private secretary, Sir Henry Ponsonby."

"Nothing too serious, I hope?" she asked, affecting a curiosity that was only a shadow of that she had shown earlier in the evening.

"One can never tell with Sir Henry," he answered. "The man has that rare ability to appear calm and unperturbed even in the midst of the worst situations. I dare say if he were to stand outside tonight, he would remain untouched by all that rages about him. For that reason, initial contact with him tells one next to nothing of his purpose. Not a man I would care to have across from me at the gaming tables."

She moved to make some vague comment only to jump and lurch forward a little in fright as a loud boom sounded outside, the thunder having rolled in closer.

He stepped forward, his hand reaching automatically to steady her, frowning as he looked down at her. "I had not realised you were so discomfited by thunder."

Her cheeks flushed a deep rose, her body still shivering a little, though she tried to hide it with a self-deprecating smile as she inwardly berated herself. Of all the times to show this weakness! "A little," she admitted. "Not so much in the city...but out here..." The thunder boomed again, and a little gasp escaped her lips.

"It is nothing," he said gently, "merely the collision of hot and cold air currents. It will pass soon enough."

"You must think me quite foolish," she whispered, a little pained. How much easier she was making his withdrawal from her, acting like an irrational, skittish kitten.

"We all of us have our fears," he murmured as he watched her.

Managing to jump only a little with the next roll of thunder, she tried to focus on his words, her breathing still rapid. "We do?" She pushed softly for the meaning she saw behind his words. His eyes were upon her as he stood close to her, and his hand so warm through the fabric of the sleeve of her dress that it abruptly made the thought of a night in her bed waiting for his words, for the axe to fall, excruciating.

He nodded, becoming very still, and through his hold upon her arm and the look in his eyes, she could feel the tension flood through him again. Everything within her clenched with a soft internal whimper. "Helen, I think..." he started and just as suddenly stopped.

The whimper within her became a cry, torn and conflicted, wanting him to say it, and yet beseeching him not to. "Yes?" she murmured, her voice thick with tension.

His lips parted as he inhaled. "I think it _is_ probably time to retire...weather not withstanding, it has been a pleasant evening, but a long one."

"Yes...of course," she agreed after a long agonised moment.

He released her to turn the gas down low in the room, casting shadows about the place, before escorting her to the door and opening it upon the now equally dim hallway. Goodwin and Mary had been quick about their duties and departure to their beds.

"Perhaps," he said in the quiet tone that seemed only to add to the subdued atmosphere, "you might be good enough to direct me to my room? As I have not previously been upstairs, it might be prudent." He motioned to the staircase with his chin. "Otherwise certain family members might be somewhat rudely awoken."

"Of course," she replied, leading him to the staircase and up the stairs, her words equally hushed. "I believe the room Goodwin mentioned is the one across the hall from Andrew's."

Stopping at the top of the staircase in front of the large picture window, the landing stretching off into a corridor in either direction, she pointed to the right. "If you take a left at the end of the corridor, that is the way to Matthew's and Andrew's rooms, and they are the first and second doors on your right. Yours is the second to the left across from Andrew's."

Her hand shifted to indicate the other corridor, her manner and words a little shaky, her fingers closing quickly as she noted her hand trembling. "That way is where both I and my mother sleep. She has the first door on the left and I am a little further down also on the left, with a guest bedroom in between," she added without knowing why.

"It should be quite warm and comfortable now," she said after a moment, swallowing and looking back to him, barely containing the urge to reach up and touch him in the shadows, to convince herself their relationship wasn't already over and that he wasn't already gone. "I should say my goodnights to you here," she said instead.

He nodded slowly. "Good night then, Helen, thank you for a pleasant evening...sleep well."

She nodded in kind and moved to step away, only to stop as his fingers caught hers. Gazing up at him, she could only stand and watch, her lashes fluttering closed as he lowered his head. His lips brushed over her cheek, lingering for a just a moment as her heart pounded once more in her ears, and she felt the prick of tears behind her eyelids. Her heart began to break as he drew back before a crack of lightning snapped, lighting the world around them via the flash in the picture window beside them. The thunder came almost immediately, crashing directly above them.

She jolted hard this time, moving against him, the sound deafening, her fingers closing tight around his upper arms at the surge of fright shooting up her spine. Feeling ashamed of her action and exceptionally foolish, she looked up a fraction of a second later to apologise, only yet again to stop in mid breath. Their eyes met, she was transfixed by his features and the intensity in his eyes as they were lit again by another flash of lightning.

Holmes could feel her shivering as the thunder rolled once more, the hand that had moved to her waist when she had unconsciously stepped forward feeling how she trembled. A surge of protectiveness washed through him, prompting a gentle soothing hush from him, his other hand slipping to her cheek to stroke it as she gazed up at him. "There is nothing to fear..." he murmured, lowering his head again to close the distance, to give her more security, to make her feel safe.

She looked so scared and so indescribably sad, and the tension that had lain inside him all evening, constrained by being unable to leave here and therefore unable to say what he had to say to her, exploded under the desire to see that fear, that sadness, washed away. For his only wish was to make her feel safe…protected.

And in that moment, all other thoughts and logical rationales were submerged save that one.

His eyes roved over her face, the slow stroke of his hand on her cheek stilling to cup it. "Nothing to fear..." he echoed as the raging storm about them retreated in his consciousness and she became his world. "Nothing..." came the whisper as his eyes slipped to her mouth, his lips following suit, capturing hers in a slow ardent kiss as he drew her closer to him.

The whimper, earlier internalised, slipped from her now as her hands slowly slid up his arms. Barely able to believe what was happening at first, her surprise was washed away by the look in his eyes, the depth of feeling for her, and the flood of desperate need in her. Need for this connection. Need for him to stay with her and not to let her go. Her body pressed to his, her fingers sliding into his hair and mussing it. He loved her. She could feel it with everything in her, and with each movement of his lips, the further she lost herself in him. His scent fired her blood as much as his kiss, bringing life to every nerve in her body -- electric sparks shooting directly from her lips down to her toes. Whole...complete...home.

Another roll of thunder struck, and though the world flashed with light as he drew her against him, neither saw it. A wave of desire swept through him with the sound, heating his blood and fuelling the need to be closer to her, to feel her respond to him, his rational mind slipping away in the maelstrom outside and in. The kiss deepened once more, not instinctive like the first time or hazed like the second, but strong, immediate, and wholly possessive, his hold on her almost fierce.

This was why he had held back from physical intimacy with her for so long. He had known what lay after that first step because he knew what lay within him -- the spark of connection that pulled at him whenever she was near. He could feel the point where admiration became attraction, where affection became avarice. And he knew that once those points were crossed, he would not resist it...resist her...without aid, because the fear of this passionate connection would transform itself into pure unadulterated need.

The kind of need that filled him now.

She was drowning in him, lost in a sea of heat and desire. She could no longer hear the storm over the thudding of her own heart, crashing over and over like a drumbeat in her ears. There was nothing but him and the utter desire to keep him with her. She was desperate with it. And as his hands pulled her even tighter to him, holding her fast, her low moan of surrender poured into him.

And that sound galvanised him like nothing before. He was no novice; few men beyond a certain class were, and he too had had his rite of passage, but even in the hands of a mistress of the art of seduction, he had never felt like this. _There was no mystery like a woman_ he had said to her, yet no woman had ever touched him as this one. There was nothing left to him now but to indulge the thrill of investigation as with any mystery...to discover her, unlock her secrets and wonders. And before he knew it, he had pulled his mouth from hers, his breath harsh, his eyes meeting hers for a fraction of a moment before he swept her up into his arms and followed her earlier directions towards her room.

Entering the darkened room, lit only by the red glow of the coals in her fireplace, he placed her lightly down upon her feet. Standing close, his eyes remained upon her as he reached behind him to silently close the door. She stood transfixed as he drew her into his arms again, touching her face, his fingers caressing the lines with the freedom they had longed for. Soft kisses on her lips, cheeks, eyes, and forehead came as his hands moved up to the hair he so admired.

The lightning flashed once more as her hair fell about her shoulders, pins gently removed but tossed carelessly away. Even in the half light she could see the look in his eyes, the glory that he saw in her auburn locks. Lowering his lips to brush them against the handful he had been gently exploring at her shoulder, he turned his head to kiss her throat. And kiss it again and again, his lips and breath caressing her skin as he gently guided her backwards, his head rising to gaze at her once more as they reached the side of her bed.

She was alive...dizzy...and captivated by him. Some small voice told her inside what she...no, what _they_ were contemplating was wrong. That young ladies did not entertain gentlemen in their bedrooms. That they did not permit them half the liberties that she was permitting her beau now. That they never gave in to desire. Desire they should not even have. She knew all this and more, but didn't care a whit. She was his, bound to him in ways she didn't comprehend nor did she wish to try. She loved him...loved him with every fibre in her being. There was nothing on this earth she would not do for him. Nothing she would not give him. Nothing she would deny him. And if he was to leave her in the end then she would have this at least…this moment…him.

Lines were crossed, rules broken and worlds changed in those few seconds when their eyes met. No questions, no answers, just understanding, longing, and a love unspoken but deeply tangible. One that had grown and deepened as it had overcome obstacles both had thought would never be surmounted.

Drawing the covers back on her bed, he stepped close to her, his lips finding hers again as the world thundered outside. His kisses rained upon her far more softly than the drops that dashed against the window panes, the cold outside thwarted by the heat within as the barriers between them were slowly removed. Their clothes scattered about their feet, he lowered her to the softness of her bed and kissed her face, neck, and shoulders as he joined her, drawing the covers about them.

Shielded in their darkened cocoon as the storm raged about them, there was only the sound of soft shared breaths as tentative hands and lips explored, touched, caressed. Eyes locked, bodies entwined as sighs merged into gasps. Skin met skin, hot with impassioned fever, and as a flash of light seared the night sky, the distant roll of heaven's thunder was joined by an earthly feminine cry as two became one.

The pain and tears of what was lost were soothed with the balm of whispered reassurance and returning pleasure. Together, their bodies flowed and merged, once shy responses growing in confidence and strength until what little remained of the line between them was blurred by growing heat. Words ended, thoughts fled, until there was only fire…and then, with mingled cries…fulfilment.

Cradled in each other's arms, oblivious to the world around them and what consequences the dawn might bring, the lovers lay in contented silence until the sound of the rain lulled them into slumber.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: Greetings all! I hope this chapter was worth the wait! And so sorry to leave you on this note. Heh. No, we're not really. Anyways the next chapter is drafted, and all will be revealed...sorta. Well, partly. Did we mention about three more chapters to go? (grins) Again, thank you all so much for all the lovely and kind reads and/or reviews. We do try to answer each person's review (especially if you sign it so we don't have to hunt down emails), so feel free to ask any questions. Right...onwards...and upwards! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)  
**_


	13. The Best Laid Plans

**_Chapter Thirteen: The Best Laid Plans_**

_15th October, 1890_

The view from the casement window was of a gradually lightening, clear blue sky, a bright autumn sun rising over the still tree tops. It was, Holmes thought as he stood gazing out upon it, the very picture of the clichéd ideal of the calm after the storm. All peace and serenity in a new day dawned. It was not, however, until one looked beneath and down to the ground, to the broken wreckage of branches and roof slates and flooded fields and roads, did one see the damage done by such a tempest.

On the road in the distance, the still dark shadow of a cart, a man hunched onboard at the reins -- another apparently clearing branches -- caught his attention. He stepped back from the window quickly, determined not to be seen in kind. The thought came to him that it was unusual that someone should be clearing the roads so quickly in such a remote area, before his mind turned again to thoughts of damage done.

His un-pomaded hair hanging loose and low over his forehead, he turned to look down at the young woman lying still in the bed, fast asleep, her auburn hair spread in waves across the pillow and over her shoulders, the colour bright and vibrant in the earliest of morning light, and her face as serene as sky outside her bedroom window.

Pulling his suspenders up over his shirted shoulders, his movements designed not to wake or even disturb the sleeping figure, he sat carefully down on the bed to watch her. Just as he had watched her for a full ten minutes on waking, the dawn's light creeping over her face, revealing the quiet half smile of her repose. A scene that on the surface was pleasant and beautiful.

But it, too, was surface, revealing nothing of the damage wrought this last night.

He turned his head away, barely keeping a silent inwards curse of frustration from slipping to his lips. Everything he had ever warned himself about from the start, all his planning, all his careful words…ripped up by his continued difficulty in voicing his innermost thoughts and the arrival of the storm -- a force of nature matched by another internal force that had raged out of control.

His reluctance to stay there under her roof last night had been based on the fear of rumours of scurrilous falsehoods. Now, if they were bandied about, they would be rumours of fact.

He should never have stayed. Or at the very least, never allowed his discomfort at remaining under her roof to prevent him from saying what he'd planned to say. His sense of decorum had backfired upon him spectacularly. That and his personal inability to speak the words he should have said directly upon their return.

He cursed himself again for a fool.

He had been weak...dreadfully weak. The true extent of the erosion of his phlegmatic persona over this past two years when dealing with her was now painfully, practically clear. His body and emotions had overwhelmed his mind with the most appalling ease. All in response to her vulnerability, the fear, and inexplicable sadness that he had seen in her eyes. A vulnerability that had touched him and provoked a desire to soothe and ease.

Desire. He shook his head at the thought. Man's greatest curse. How easily it turned from one form to another. How simply her vulnerability had uncovered his own, leaving her exposed to the far darker desires he had struggled with these past weeks. Desire of a strength that he had foolishly thought himself incapable of until late. And under its influence he had taken advantage of her in the worst way possible. His hand raked through his hair angrily, his eyes going to his waistcoat and from there to his frockcoat, where they lay in the aftermath of the indulgent heat of the night.

His gaze rested on the fabric of the black coat.

Nothing had changed. Tainted, yes. Nowhere near what he had wished to happen. But nothing had changed. He must still do what he had come here intending to do, for if anything it was more imperative than ever that he do so.

He stood up, a little faster than he intended, shaking the bed as he strode across the room in bare feet to scoop up his waistcoat and coat.

Helen's eyes fluttered open at the feel of her bed jiggling, a contented sigh threatening to slip from her lips. The sense of well-being that flooded through her was quite profound, that is until, as she stretched cat like in the comfort of her bed, her head turned to see her beau slipping on his waistcoat. And then the entirety of the previous night flashed through her head, and an almost sick feeling welled up inside her.

Shifting to sit up, she remembered the state of her undress, her eyes widening and her hands grasping the covers and holding them around her tightly.

Nothing had changed. Despite last night, it was to be the same outcome. Tears pricked at her eyes as she watched, hating that this moment had come and wishing vainly that there was something she could do to convince him...but what else could she do? Against all the laws of society and religion she had given him all of herself. But why should that be enough? She had not done it to keep him…merely to have the memory of him. Men were disdainful of women who cast their virtue aside. If anything, her willingness to take him to her bed would only have set his decision in stone.

She was sure she'd never felt so lost...so alone...in her life, even given the way her father had cast her and her mother out when she was a teenager.

"Is it that time already?" she asked quietly, her voice cutting across the silence of the room.

His flash of surprise at her being awake was hidden quickly.

His eyes met hers, his answer mistaking her meaning entirely. "The dawn is well broken and the servants will be about soon...I should go to avoid our being discovered."

Her jaw was tight, and she could barely look in his direction, let alone at him. "Of course," she said, her words feeling hollow. Taking a deep breath, determined not to cry in front of him and retain some dignity -- she had made a choice last night, she reminded herself again, she had known the consequences -- she slid from the bed, taking the sheet with her as she moved to her bureau to get a nightgown.

Hefting his watch in his hand, he watched her, weighing more than just the timepiece. Slipping it into his coat pocket rather than threading it through his waistcoat, he took a few steps after her, draping his coat over the footboard of her bed.

"There is a limited amount of time, Helen; we must speak." Taking a deep breath, he continued, "I cannot leave this room without settling things between us."

The muscles in her back and shoulders stiffened, her hand stilling on the handle of the drawer. Her eyes closed as she inhaled, her heart feeling as though it were being torn from her chest, before she pulled open the drawer and took out the soft, silken garment.

Vaguely ridiculous as it seemed at this point in proceedings, on seeing her intent he turned his back, and she pulled the nightgown over her head, letting the sheet slip, her fingers working over the buttons as she turned back to him. Carrying the sheet back to the bed, intending to make it up as soon as he left to prevent a maid finding it so, she sat down. "Of course," she finally replied quietly.

Turning and finding her at least partially clothed, he paced towards her before stopping short.

"Last night..." he began, faltering uncharacteristically before visibly steeling himself. "Last night was the culmination of everything I had feared in being involved with a woman. What happened between us was the kind of weakness that comes from exceptional attachment to another person...from allowing one's feelings to overrun common sense.

"I had hoped to avoid anything like this. I had planned to speak to you last night. But the storm, and being restrained here, curtailed my words...and instead I find myself in one of the extreme and disquieting circumstances I had hoped to avoid."

Her face paled drastically, and her fingers tightened with each other on her lap, but she said not a word.

"However..." his hands slipped behind his back, "the deed is done; the genie is loosed from the bottle and there is no re-capturing it. We must face what we have done." A long moment passed before he said, "And I must ask your forgiveness for it."

Her head dipped down, her hair falling in a curtain around her face. "There is nothing to forgive, Sherlock," she told him, managing to keep her voice level only with extreme effort. "You may leave here with a clean conscience."

"No, I cannot!" He almost snorted with derision at the very idea. "You were frightened and vulnerable last night, and my desire to comfort led to other desires I had no business unleashing. Desires I have been endeavouring to quell ever since my behaviour at the opera last month..." He paused, re-evaluating, his voice growing softer. "No...even before that," he admitted.

His decisive tone returned a moment later. "It should _never_ have happened. _I_ should never have allowed it to happen. To let my heart rule my head so damagingly...to disrespect you so intensely." He sliced the air with a short, chopping, almost violent motion of his hand. "It is a disgrace, and it shows up the paucity of my decision making...my procrastination in not speaking to you sooner. If I had done so, I feel perhaps we should not have been brought to this most awkward of situations..."

Her head rose, her grey eyes unbearably sad as she gazed at him. "I see."

His brow furrowed at the look on her face, a spike of guilt bringing him to her side. "Forgive me…" he said again, this time in a more gentle tone. "I would not wish hurt upon you for the world. And…" he paused, "despite the pleasure of the moment, I have hurt and wronged you in the deed." He took in her stricken face. "I wish that you did not feel that hurt so keenly." His fingers reached up to brush a curl from her face. "And that it did not colour what I must say to you as it does."

He took a step back from her, his hands going behind his back as he drew himself up to his full and not inconsiderable height.

"I did not wish for these words to be spoken in this manner, but there is little choice left open to me. They must be spoken before I leave you." He pursed his lips, his brow furrowing in recollection of the words he had dwelled on for some time now, determined not to be put off by the same discomfort he had in speaking of such things that had helped to hold his tongue the night before.

"Helen, these past years in your company have affected me greatly. They have wrought a subtle change in me that I never thought to see. I have talked to you before of how your ways have touched and infuriated me, of why it is I have come to care for you more deeply then I ever thought to care for any woman.

"I do not trust the feminine mind, for I do not trust its whimsical fancies and caprices...but I trust you. I trust in your judgement and your intellect. I trust your words as truth as you know it, for you have an honest and supportive heart. There is a strength in you that goes deep. A strength that can take the slings and arrows that life can throw and the uncertainty of a future where peril may play its part.

"There are flaws too, of course, but without them you would be a saint, an idol, an ideal...and one cannot love an ideal. They are perfect, remote and untouchable…" he reached out, his hand slipping into hers, raising it upwards, "hardly what a man seeks in a wife."

To say it took a moment for his words to permeate her consciousness was an understatement. At least a full ten seconds passed while she stared at him blankly before confusion registered on her face.

Had she heard correctly? Did his words even mean what she thought they meant? Given his behaviour last night, everything he had said seemed to conflict and contradict.

"You...you..." she stumbled before regaining control of her voice and took another moment to compose herself. "I am sorry, Sherlock, you must forgive me if this is the most dreadful misunderstanding on my part, but I confess my head is spinning what with one thing and another. Do…do I understand you correctly?" Her throat had tightened and made swallowing feel tight and uncomfortable. "Do you wish me...to...to be...your wife?" The last word came out breathlessly, her chest rising and falling quickly.

"That is the intent of my words, yes." He nodded perfunctorily.

The tiniest, most breathless, "Oh," was all that escaped her as the room spun about her.

"I know it is not as it should be..." he reiterated, misunderstanding her reticent reaction. "It is not at all how I had planned. I had intended to ask you last night after returning you home." His brow creased. "I confess I did not find it as easy as I had planned it in my thoughts before leaving London. A woman demands some sense of the romantic, something I _still_ find the greatest difficulty in contemplating.

"I recall approaching you in that very drawing room downstairs when asking for the right to court you...and I recollect your reaction to my less than appropriate manner then. I knew more a subtle, more tender approach was required this turn. But…" he shifted in discomfort, "as I say, I find such things hard to manage, and in my tension even my plainer words became unspeakably complicated."

His expression discomfort became frustration upon his aquiline features. "I tried to build to it with my talk of the flexibility of human nature, bachelorhood, and the how every man in his life comes to a crossroads at least once. But then the storm took a hand, keeping me here. And I could not continue," he explained ruefully. "I felt I could not do anything as intimate as propose and then stay here with you under the same roof. Had I the vaguest inkling of what was to come…" He shook his head. "Still, I almost succumbed to the proposal, the words very nearly came all the same when talking of our fears. But I collected myself...I wish now I had not," he said with all sincerity. "Then perhaps the evening would have played out very differently and my proposal to you now would not have been tainted like this."

The entire evening replayed itself with such rapidity in her mind that it might have taken her breath away had it not already been completely extracted by his words. Suddenly everything…every little word or gesture…every thing he hadn't said or he had tensed in the attempt to say took on an entirely different meaning from the miserable memory she had first gleaned from it.

The facts! He was always speaking of obtaining the facts first...and what had she done? Once again, leapt to conclusions! He spoke of his still failed ability to be a man of romantic inclination, of repeating past failures, and here she was repeating one of her very own from the beginning of their courtship. Why _hadn't_ she spoken up? Inquired, even in the most subtle manner? She shook her head rapidly as she chastised herself for her ill-informed over-reaction the night before.

"No! No, no," she told him, taking his face in her hands, tossing aside all decorum in her amazement and relief. "It is not tainted! I mean…I am glad that your proposal is not solely predicated on the ill-timed events of last night. That this moment was…_is_ not stemming from guilt for you. For then I would surely feel as if somehow I had trapped you with what had happened and I would not have that, not for the world. Last night…last night was…" She trailed off, not wanting him to think her completely wanton and lascivious in her memories of what had passed between them.

She swallowed, her eyes dipping and her hands releasing his face to find and take his hands. "I've been foolish, Sherlock. Since my conversation with your brother, I have had...worries...that perhaps you wished to dissolve our relationship. That perhaps I was not as positive an influence on your life as you wished me to be. And you were acting so reserved last night...that I feared..."

His sharp eyes widened slightly. "You thought I meant to end it with you? All last night? Through our entire conversation?"

"I should have asked. I should not have jumped to erroneous conclusions." Her eyes met his again, the foolishness she felt showing in her face along with a bare and frank honesty. "Forgive me, Sherlock, for what I shall say next. For my feminine and romantic words, but I fear the extremes of emotion…" Her breath caught as that emotion spiked within her, and she fought to continue.

"The extremes of emotion I have experienced from last night to this have left me with very little reserve to battle on with. And so I feel compelled to say, in all earnestness, that I love you so, far more than paltry words could ever express. And that I mean what I say when I say that I don't blame you for anything. I made a choice last night...a desperate choice but one born of my feeling for you, immodest as that may sound…and one that many men could not forgive _even_ in their fiancées." She could feel herself physically trembling, her words shaking with barely suppressed feeling. "But you have and I am yours, Sherlock Holmes. I have been for so long I can scarce remember anything different. I am yours in mind, body, and soul. And I will gladly and whole-heartedly be your wife."

He gazed at her in silence for the longest time, before speaking. "I see…" he said so calmly that she may well have consented to a mere request to attend a concert with him. "Then you best have this."

Silently withdrawing his hands from her grasp, he reached out to take hold of his coat, still over the foot of the bed, and pulled it closer. Fishing within his inside pocket, past his cigarette case, his fingers closed about the small square box he had played with so often and so nervously the night before when alone. Drawing it out, he opened it, revealing a delicate Georgian style ring composed of two brilliant cut diamonds on either side of an oval emerald, all set in a delicately woven gold band.

"I have been carrying this with me for a week now. It has weighed heavily upon me all that time, and therefore it is with the greatest of pleasure that I relinquish it to your safe keeping," he said quietly. Removing it from the box, he took her hand and raised it, gently slipping the jewel over her finger, a small smile of satisfaction touching his lips on inwardly noting that he had judged her finger size to perfection. "Now, it belongs with you."

Her hand shook and her trembling increased, tears coming to her eyes, though she knew she must be smiling like a complete idiot. "It's...it's beautiful," she breathed, staring at both it and his hand on hers before looking up into his face.

His fingers touched her cheek, her jaw, slipping down to caress the side of her neck, his eyes soft. "I had questions...of myself, of you, of our suitability, and most particularly of mine for this venture," he admitted. "The answers I found, I believe, are the correct ones. Though there are only two amongst them I believe to be flawless. One, that there are no guarantees in any venture. And two, that there are no more doubts about this one," he whispered before pulling her close and mingling his lips gently with hers.

His kiss was slow and sweet, her fingers slipping up to touch his neck, his hair, as she sank joyfully into his embrace, her heart light and her soul floating on air. Moments, perhaps minutes passed, and the tension finally lifted from him as he held her, only to return with a vengeance when the birds outside chirruped and sang ever louder as the new, bright day made its presence more and more felt. Keenly aware that he was still in her bedroom as the minutes ticked by, he drew away from her. "I must go," he told her softly.

A light frown crossed her brow, as she was loathe to part from him, but with a sigh, she nodded. "Of course," she agreed, touching his cheek. "I will see you at breakfast?"

"You shall." A small smile flitted over his thin lips. "Though perhaps it would be best not to convey the news of our engagement to your mother until the day after tomorrow. That is, if you can meet me in London tomorrow? I think it best if she does not think I proposed and stayed the night here...still less the true falling into place of events."

She looked down at the ring on her finger. "I shall hate having to remove this...even if only for a day or so." Her gaze met his again as she nodded. "Very well. I shall meet you in London. Should I arrange to stay the night at Brown's?"

"Yes..." He nodded after a moment. "I shall inform Watson of our engagement, and no doubt he will insist upon a celebration of sorts with he and Mary. Providing I can keep him from broadcasting it to the world, it shall be a quiet dinner no doubt. A room at Brown's would be advisable."

She smiled widely, knowing full well what John Watson, MD's reaction would be. "Very well, I'll arrange it this morning and travel on the early train tomorrow."

He kissed her hand as he moved from her. "I shall meet you at King's Cross," he assured her before becoming brisk and businesslike. "Now...Miss Thurlow, we have things to attend to." Beckoning her to rise, he moved around the bed to retrieve his stockings and shoes. Putting them to one side, he grasped hold of the bottom bed sheet of her bed and cleanly pulled it off.

"Your household linen closet shall be one sheet less when Mary next goes to count," he explained, folding up the soiled sheet. "Take off the pillow cases."

Frowning, she did as he asked, wondering why they were changing the linens. "Sherlock..." she began before catching sight of the dark scarlet hue on the bed sheet he was folding and slipping under his coat. "Oh."

"Yes..." he said quickly, keeping his businesslike poise despite the awkward reminder of what had been lost the night before. "And the pillow cases are, in their way, nonetheless damning." Taking them from her, he ran his hand through his soft, loose hair to demonstrate, the pomade long since gone.

Her eyes widened as she nodded. "Of course." With a smile, she reached up to touch it. "It's lighter...the tones, I mean." Her cheeks flushed as she lowered her hand, odd that a simple touch of his hair had inspired it when she'd seen...well, not so much seen as felt…so much more last night.

"Yours seems more vibrant still," he answered, his eyes straying to the mass of locks that tumbled about her, framing her face, remembering the feel of those soft curls on his skin, before he frowned at himself and folded up the pillow cases as well. "I shall place _these _upon my bed before I take to it for an hour or two before breakfast. Do you have replacements in the bureau?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No...but the linen closet is just at the end of the hall. I can fetch a clean set," she told him. "Mary won't know any differently for a short while at least."

"Very well...I shall place the pillow cases from my room in the linen closet and you may take them to place on your bed." He gathered up his shoes and socks and placed them on the growing bundle of coat and linens. "The explanation for the missing sheet, I shall leave to your undoubted ingenuity," he added, flashing the quickest of smiles at her.

She found herself grinning at the tone of conspiracy, finding it increasingly hard to be sorry now that anything had happened, her heart far too full. "I'm sure I can think of something," she agreed.

"Without a doubt." His head inclined towards her, the dread of discovery eased considerably by the sense of joined purpose. "I shall go." He made to go for the door before stopping and taking two short steps back to her, leaning over his bundle to capture her lips once more.

She returned his kiss, her love for him permeating the gesture. However, after a moment, she pulled back all the same, aware that the upstairs maid would be arriving shortly to stoke the coals in the rooms. "I love you," she told him earnestly.

His smile grew broader, the glint in his eyes mischievous as he stepped away from her and moved to the door. "My dear Miss Thurlow, I should _very _much hope so."

* * *

_  
16th October, 1890_

"I do beg your pardon." The elderly man tipped his silken top hat to John and Mary Watson as he, and the young man accompanying him, blocked the couple's pathway from their carriage. The polite gesture revealed the neat silver mane that lay beneath and matched the impressively long silver beard that covered a goodly portion of his dress shirt. "Clumsy of me," he apologised, smiling up at them.

"Not at all." Watson returned his smile, tipping his own hat in kind, his good humour wonderfully obvious in his voice and eyes. "Our fault entirely. Are you intending to dine here?" He gestured towards the restaurant both pairs approached.

"Indeed, sir. My grandson and I are often to be found here…though I fear we are disgracefully late," the querulous voice replied.

"Then you must allow me," Watson said, smiling from father to son, before moving to open the door for them. "Enjoy your evening."

The elderly man's intelligent violet eyes found him as he passed, sharp and bright. "Thank you, sir, and the same to you and your good lady wife."

When the two men had entered through the glass portico of Prince's Hall restaurant, Piccadilly, with its florid brass ornamentations, Watson turned his smile to Mary as he held the door for her still. "Shall we?"

Her returning smile lightening his humour still further, he escorted his wife into the brightly lit, French-style entrance hall with its gilded mirrors and screens decorated with delicate painted flowers. Good humour was perhaps too trifling a term to apply to the good doctor this evening. For as well as sporting his best evening wear, Watson bore the demeanour of a man who had just been told he had inherited a fortune moments after his horse had won the Derby…almost giddy.

"I still can't quite believe it, you know," he murmured to his wife, watching as the Maitre d'hotel immediately led the two gentlemen ahead of them from the comfortable waiting room, escorting them through the inner glass doors to the main Salon and from there, upstairs to one of the private rooms of the highly fashionable restaurant.

Mary squeezed his arm, a happy smile on her lips as well, relishing their dear friends' good news. "You can't?" she enquired teasingly.

"Well, think on it!" he whispered loudly, as a steward smiled on recognising Watson from his earlier visit to book this evening's reservation and indicated a table where they might wait for the rest of their party. "Less than a year ago, Holmes was on the verge of letting her marry poor William Edwards. And now, he's proposed himself, and with not a jot of prompting, cajoling, or pushing from me!" Seating Mary, he flipped back his coat tails before joining her. "When he broke the news to me in such a passing fashion I almost missed it completely! I ask you, what a way to break such news to a chap!" He shook his head in disbelief. "Right in the middle of reading the report of the second day's Test at Old Trafford!"

Mary found herself chuckling as she smoothed her plum coloured evening gown. "Dearest, have you ever known him to be any different? Left to him, I fear we shall hear of the birth of their first child in between recitations of the agony column." Her eyes twinkled in merriment as she reached out and took his hand, giving it another squeeze.

He laughed softly and placed his other hand over hers. "Quite right, my love. He has the most confounded way of making minutiae like...like..." he cast around, "grey clay speckles on one's trousers picked up on your way to visit him sound like the most important thing in the world, and the kind of events that shape your life sound like…well...grey clay speckles on one's trousers!" He sat back in his chair. "Needless to say, he wasn't remotely forthcoming on how he proposed. Poor Helen," he mused with a smile, "I wonder if he put it to her with any subtlety at all?"

Mary smiled again, knowing her friend well enough by now to know that she wouldn't have given a jot how Sherlock Holmes had proposed as long as he meant it with all his heart. "She's well used to his habits by now. I think no matter how he did it, she was incredibly pleased and happy."

"More shocked to the core, I'll warrant." Watson chuckled again. "I just hope he did not put it as a logical progression or a furtherance of the _'chemistry experiment' _he propounded last time!" He shook his head at the memory of hearing that particular tale. "Still, credit where credit is due. He has travelled quite a distance in a relatively short time. I _truly _never thought to see the day. Oh, there were one or two women I thought may have intrigued him sufficiently, wickedly intelligent and as poised and striking as queens, but as they came and went I began to have my doubts of his ever treading this path. I should have known it would take an entirely different type of woman, if one nonetheless notable for all her differences. Helen Thurlow is in need of a medal for this!" he exclaimed with a chuckle.

"No doubt she is." Holmes's calm tones came from their right where he stood, the woman in question on his arm. "Though for what, might I ask?"

Mary bit her lip to keep from laughing at the expression on her husband's face as she rose to her feet to greet them. "My warmest congratulations, Sherlock. With all due deference to your remarkable intellect and work, I dare say this is the most gratifying of your deductions, to my mind," she told him before moving to embrace her friend. "Helen, I'm so incredibly happy for you." Pulling back but still holding her friend's arms, she told her honestly, "You are going to make a most beautiful bride."

As the two women began to talk, as women do in such circumstances, excitedly recounting details and endeavouring to keep their girlishness under some kind of restraint, Watson stood under the gaze of his friend who quite clearly was still waiting for an answer. Clearing his throat slightly, the doctor straightened his shoulders. "Well...quite frankly a medal for bravery beyond the call of duty," he replied. "Well deserved if she's taking you on, knowing all there is to know about you."

A corner of Holmes's mouth curled slightly. "You don't think I am so foolish as to ever allow that she will know _all _there is to know about me...do you? A woman, once she knows a man's foibles intimately, feels obliged to change them for what _she_ regards as the better. How better to counter that than by preserving a little inscrutability about oneself?" he suggested with humour. "Women are naturally curious creatures when it comes to other people, far more than we men. If they can preserve their allure with a little mystery…how much more might a woman remain intrigued by her husband if she feels there is always something yet for her to discover?"

Watson blinked and then smiled. "Perhaps that might work with you, dear chap…" He patted Holmes arm. "But I fear that most men are like myself. What you see is all there is."

Holmes's smile grew. "Alas, Watson, you are mistaken, for most men are not remotely like yourself."

The doctor smiled at the oblique compliment, only for Holmes to speak again.

"Now..." he queried with a slight flaring of the nostrils, his gaze pinning his friend once more, "_Prince's?_ When we parted, you said an intimate congratulatory supper. Your subsequent note taking us instead to the grandest dining salon in the city!"

Watson shifted slightly where he stood, clearly caught out. "Well hang it all, Holmes!" he finally burst out. "This is a joyous occasion! One most of us thought we'd never see, I'm not ashamed to say. It deserves more than to be hidden away in the corner of some chop house! And as you are both out in fashionable society, _what_ better place to be?"

Holmes's gaze remained level, though there was humour in it. "We are here to dine, Watson. No mention of the engagement will be made in public or too loudly here this evening," he instructed. "There are things to be discussed between Helen and myself that I would rather not do under the scrutiny of High or any other society."

Watson sighed at his friend's continued tendency to lecture him as if he were an adolescent, his reply just that bit sardonic. "Of course, Holmes. I shall struggle _manfully_ to keep my enthusiasm from bubbling over to sweep all before me in a torrent." With a slight roll of his eyes, he turned to Helen during a break in the ladies' conversation and took her hand. "Helen, you look radiant."

Helen, rather bubbly herself, squeezed his hand. "Thank you, John," she replied, her eyes sparkling. "You look most dashing yourself this evening."

"Given the occasion, it would've been a travesty to be anything less...I wish you well," he said earnestly.

Her smile was warm as she just about glowed with happiness. "Thank you. I can only hope we share an ounce of the happiness that you and Mary have in your marriage."

"Ah..." He smiled at her and then his wife. "For the secret to that, you must consult solely with Mary. It is her ways that precipitate our fortunate situation."

Mary chuckled and shook her head. "So he says, but his kindness and understanding more than aid." She held out her hand to him and he took it with a matching smile before the Maitre d'hotel returned to inform them of their table being ready.

The music of Signor Bocchi's band played softly while the cream of society dined all about them as the Maitre d'hotel led them through the Grand Salon of the Prince's Hall. With its heavy mouldings, walls of white picked out with gold, great panels of brick red powdered with golden fleurs-de-lis, and palms filling-in the corners, it was the very picture of sumptuous modern elegance.

Seating them at an unobtrusive table, their gilded menus delivered, the Maitre d' moved away with the words, "Your champagne and caviar will be with you momentarily, Doctor."

Watson raised his menu high, pre-empting Holmes's 'look.' "A house speciality," he mumbled.

"How incredibly thoughtful," Helen told the beleaguered doctor, trying to be diplomatic. She turned to her fiancé, laying her hand on his and giving him a soft smile. "Perhaps...if anyone enquires...we can say you solved a particularly gruelling case?"

"The use of the word gruel seems particularly ironic in the face of such fare," Holmes replied, then sighed at her smile and shook his head in resigned accession to her wishes. "Very well."

The question of the champagne now settled, Helen gave the detective's hand another squeeze before smoothing her skirts covertly and removing her short gloves.

Mary's eyes instantly widened. "Oh, Helen," she breathed. "Is that your ring?"

Looking down at her hand quickly, Helen's cheeks flushed though that very girlish gleam was in her eyes again as she nodded, holding out her hand so Mary could have a better view.

Watson's gaze mirrored his wife's though _his_ eyes slowly trailed across to Holmes, an eyebrow raised at the extravagance exhibited on the clearly expensive ring. The tables turned, Holmes's gaze remained studiously upon his menu.

The two women continued to enthuse before Mary enquired, "And what did your mother say when you told her? I should think she was quite excited herself."

Helen flushed and glanced at her fiancé, not having told her mother yet due to his wishes on her waiting until she returned from London. Holmes casually turned the page on his menu. "She is not aware of it yet. You and Watson are the first we have told." His finger trailed down through the entrees. "We had some things to discuss before we broached the subject with anyone, and I had to leave St. Albans due to my meeting with Sir Henry Ponsonby yesterday. Hence Helen's presence in London today."

"Of course," Mary agreed if only slowly. "A very logical course of action." She left the words '_if unorthodox_' unsaid, unwilling to comment on the subject further on such a happy evening. "I'm sure she will be most excited."

"And I'm sure, Holmes, that your brother will be..." Watson paused, suddenly entirely unsure how Mycroft Holmes would be, given his unusual personality. "Interested to hear of it," he finished finally.

Holmes glanced up from the menu. "No doubt. Though whether he attends the nuptials is an entirely different story."

"Oh come now," Watson said incredulously as the waiters arrived with a dish of chilled caviar, toasted tips, and an iced bucket of champagne. "Surely he will forgo the Diogenes for _that_?"

"Not if the...event...is to be held in St. Albans as has been mentioned," Holmes replied quietly as the cork was popped.

"Perhaps, I could write to him?" Helen suggested. "I would be glad to. If you think it would make any difference, that is."

"He has a definite regard for you," the detective admitted on consideration of her words. "A personal invitation may inveigle him from his comfortable position..." his smile turned a trifle devilish, "or place a useful obligation upon him."

Her eyes twinkled. "Then I shall write him tomorrow, so he has plenty of notice of the matrimonial web we intend to tangle him in."

Watson laughed softly as he watched them. "I fear, my dear," he leaned towards Mary, "that we may be witnessing the emergence of a new and terrifying dual force."

"Indeed," she agreed with an amused look at the conspiring pair.

Watson raised his glass to them silently as a formal toast was forbidden him. "So...St. Albans." he said to Helen. "Will you use the cathedral or a smaller venue?"

"Sherlock mentioned using the cathedral...but it will only be a small ceremony. Family and close friends for the most part," Helen replied, taking a sip of her champagne.

"Which is part of the reason I...we...chose to tell you first," Holmes said. "Once again we required to keep this as quiet as possible...our invitations will be delivered in..."

"Miss Helen Thurlow!" an imperious voice cut across his words. "It has been entirely too long a time." All heads turned and there, standing at Watson's elbow, dressed in a magnificent violet gown, her lorgnette raised to her eyes, thick lustrous grey hair swept upwards grandly, cane tapping on the parquet flooring, stood the unmistakeable figure of the Duchess of Monmouth, her piercing blue eyes regarding Helen and her company.

"Your...Your Grace," Helen said hurriedly, rising less than gracefully to her feet, while taking great pains not to choke on her champagne. "It is good to see you again."

All at her table rose up alongside of her as the Duchess raised her chin. "If that is so, one wonders why I have had to wait so long to be called upon?" she enquired.

"Oh…" Helen's mind blanked for a moment, not expecting that at all. "I…I sincerely apologise...my father's business has kept me rather occupied...as has my family...and..." She glanced at Holmes, her cheeks a deep rose as she fumbled for an answer. "I do apologise. I shall, of course, rectify my error as soon as possible."

"Miss Thurlow was, no doubt, unwilling to pay call upon Your Grace," Watson said with admirable smoothness. "After all, with the best will in the world, Your Grace is of a level of society where one is always reluctant to overstep their bounds."

The Duchess's sharp gaze turned to the doctor. "Dr. Watson," she clarified his identity to herself before taking in his words. Her eyes turned back abruptly to Helen. "Is this so? Did you find my position and title _inhibiting_?"

Swallowing and feeling about ten all over again under the Duchess's gaze, Helen nodded. "Indeed. I would not wish to be impertinent to Your Grace...nor presume upon your person or your kindness," Helen replied honestly, the heat in her face increasing.

The Duchess maintained her gaze for a long, long moment. "Poppycock!" she finally pronounced. "You and I are well enough informed of each other by now for me to consider you one of the few _young_ ladies of my acquaintance worth bothering with. You shall call upon me in my townhouse in Belgravia next week. Tuesday. Not too early. You will be there amidst my more prominent guests."

"Yes, Your Grace. I shall make a point of it," Helen replied, wracking her brain about what on earth she was going to wear to the Duchess's home, the style of gown required much more fashionable and of even higher quality than most of her wardrobe.

A tiny but definite nod of her head signified the elderly woman's approval. "Mr. Holmes, it is good to see you again."

"Your Grace." He inclined his head in a bow. "I trust you and your family are well."

"Quite well," she confirmed with a nod. "Phillip and Claire married recently in France. An appropriate amount of time had passed since George's...unfortunate…death, but we felt it best that they married in more private circumstances." Her brow creased at the memory. "You would be surprised at how many still hold to the medieval view that one should not marry the wife of one's brother! Never had so many old curmudgeons quote Henry the Eighth at me!" she snorted in derision. "As if that man was _any_ person to be modelling one's married life upon, king or not!"

Despite himself, Watson chuckled. "Quite, ma'am," he agreed.

"That really is most wonderful news." Helen congratulated with a smile. "I am sure they will be most happy together."

"They are well matched, make no mistake." The Duchess's head nodded sharply. "A pair of church mice...though I must admit Phillip has more steel in him than at first was apparent. He may make a good Viscount Lynley yet." She turned slightly on noting the fourth person at the table, taking in Mary with an incredibly direct examination of her face, form, and gown. "Your wife I presume, Doctor?" she asked, waiting for the introduction.

Watson turned hastily with a certain amount of sheepishness at his faux pas. "Yes...yes...my apologies, my wife Mrs. Mary Watson; Mary, her Grace the Duchess of Monmouth."

"Charming," the Duchess declared of her as she regarded her still. "Quite charming."

Mary inclined her head and gave a gentle curtsey. "Thank you, Your Grace. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," she replied, appearing as serene and unflappable as she always did, much to Helen's envy.

A corner of the Duchess's mouth curled up in a smile. "My compliments." Her gaze drifted back to Watson. "And to you, Doctor," she said approvingly of his eye before addressing his wife again. "If you wish, you may accompany Miss Thurlow upon her call," she told Mary. "I don't approve of women travelling alone…unless they reach my age, whereupon no one is interested in bothering them."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Mary inclined her head again. "That is most thoughtful of you." For all that Helen envied her calm, she would have been relieved to know that inwardly, Mary's mind was racing and ever so slightly panicking, the former governess finding herself invited into the heart of those places she had only ever seen when escorting children to and from them. Though still she didn't allow it to show. Catching Helen's eye, she could see the relief in them at the Duchess's invitation to her too, and she gave her a hint of a smile in return.

"Not at all." The Duchess waved away her thanks. "It will be refreshing to have the wife of such an accomplished man. Not merely a doctor, but author and crime solver...if only just to hear how on earth you ever manage to spend more than five minutes with him!" she said, paying no mind whatsoever to Watson's blanching face or Holmes's perceptible humour at the remark.

"So much better than hearing Lady Carmichael waffle on about the hardship of getting good servants," she groused, "the state of her flowerbeds, or her precious son's sniffles! The man's thirty years old! Quite preposterous."

Mary did her very best not to look over at her husband's face, so as not to burst into giggles. "I shall endeavour to provide a modicum more conviviality, Your Grace," she replied.

"Good..." The elder woman's smile grew a little as all too rare amusement appeared on her horizon. "I suppose I should go; I am here with my great-nephew on my late husband Mortimer's side." The steely eyes grew soft as they always seemed to do when the memory of her husband crossed her mind. "He's a charming boy...strapping but with intelligence...quite reminds me of his great-uncle." She blinked and drew herself up. "Yes, well I should return to..." She stopped, her eyes widening behind her lorgnette. "Helen Thurlow!" she snapped.

"Yes!" Helen jumped, looking like a cornered fox at the end of a hunt. "I mean…yes, Your Grace?"

"What," the elderly hand holding the wooden cane rose slowly, one finger unfurling from around its handle to point at Helen's hand, "is _that_?"

It took Helen a long time under that gaze to merely comprehend what the Duchess meant, her eyes gradually slipping to her left hand and the ring on her third finger, and freezing. "That..." She glanced at her fiancé, unsure what to say considering his dictate. "That is..."

"_That_ is an engagement ring," the Duchess finished for her, her eyes going accusingly to Holmes. "You, sir, have asked her to marry you."

"Your Grace," the detective said in an urgent tone, "I would ask that you speak quietly."

She ignored him almost entirely, her eyes going back to Helen. "And _you _have accepted." Her eyes narrowing. "Of course I knew of your courting, but this..." she said in surprise. "Is this what _this_ is?" she demanded of Helen. "A celebration of the fact?"

Helen's cheeks were almost the colour of her hair, but she took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

The cane hit the wooden floor with a thud. "Just the _four_ of you?" she exclaimed in utter incredulity.

Holmes stepped forward a little. "Your Grace is a lady of great perspicacity," he said quietly. "After your discreet dissemination of our attachment amongst society circles, we are not overly inclined to large celebrations which might draw too much attention to ourselves."

She looked up at him with some irritation, not appreciating having to crane her neck so much now that he was closer. "Why on Earth not?" she demanded, leaving Holmes caught momentarily unawares as she swept on. "This..." her hand gestured to the room around them, "is precisely the society who knows of you. That is why you are here, is it not?"

"Yes," he admitted slowly.

"Then why not celebrate properly?" she carped and shook her head. "No...no...this will not do at all. I can understand discretion, of course, but if you wish privacy there are places to arrange a proper celebration of such an event, places that are not under the nose of London's all too prurient media, no matter what arrangement you may have struck with them." Her cane began to tap rapidly on the floor as her brow creased, her aristocratic features sliding into thought. "Four people to celebrate such a match? Quite unheard of. We shall have to arrange something else."

"I have no wish of anything else," Holmes informed her. "I…"

"And what have _you_ to do with it, sir?" she rejoined quickly, cutting him off again. "Do you imagine that such an event is about you? No, sir, it is about others! Your wedding will be about you...or more to the point...your bride. Up to that point, your engagement is something for those closest to you to celebrate...for society to acknowledge. And as long as it is done in a discreet manner, with those who may be trusted, then I fail to see what you have to complain about."

Watson stared at her wide-eyed, his eyes going back and forth between the Duchess and Holmes.

"I am in debt still to you, Mr. Holmes," she informed him. "Do not bother to deny it. And I _abhor_ being in debt to anyone. So I shall remedy that by giving you an engagement party worthy of the name, _and _in keeping for your need for discretion. You shall come to my estate in Devonshire, you and all your guests…and those I choose for you...and we shall toast your names in a fitting manner." Her gaze became resolute as she looked at him. "Will you deny an old woman a chance to repay her debt to you, sir?" she enquired with an effortless verbal flick of the wrist that disarmed any manner of response.

Helen's mind was still reeling from the offer, but she was amazed at how the Duchess had managed to corral her fiancé into a corner. She glanced over at Mary and Watson to see both staring at the elderly woman with both awe and a hint of nervous apprehension.

Holmes stared at her as well, his brow creasing at her words, torn between the desire to avoid a major social event and admiration for the Duchess's sheer forthrightness and alacrity of thought. There was no denying she was quite the personage -- a woman of the highest social stature who had reached the age where she felt she could take and leave conventions, and false politeness, when she saw a better way forward. She was also fully cognisant of the reasons why discretion even with a grander party was desired.

"I cannot in good conscience do so, no," he replied, aware of the breaths being held around the table. "If Miss Thurlow has no objections, then I must accede to your kind offer, providing all due discretion is maintained."

The Duchess raised her chin, and transferred her eyes to Helen, waiting.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Helen could find no way to decline politely either and, taking a low, quiet breath, nodded. "Thank you, Your Grace. This is incredibly kind of you."

She received a perfunctory nod of the head in return. "Then you and Mrs. Watson shall stay for dinner after you call upon me next Tuesday. We have a deal to plan for..." She paused. "I shall invite your friend, Lady Sotherby, too, as she was the one who approached me about the spreading of the news of your courtship."

Helen's head bobbed slowly. "Yes...I was planning on speaking with her tomorrow, but I'm sure she will be delighted to come." She smiled and tried not to let her hands fiddle with each other. "She adores planning parties, and I'm sure will be a great help."

"Great-aunt?" A tall, young, square-jawed man in his mid twenties approached the Duchess. "I was beginning to think you lost!"

"Nonsense, boy." She waved her cane a little at him, though there was affection in her eyes as she regarded him. "I have never been lost in my life. I always know precisely where I am; any horsewoman worth her salt does. I was merely conversing with some friends."

"So I see..." he observed with a smile that lit up his eyes and was instantaneously infectious. If this was part of why he reminded her of her late husband, it was easier to see why the Duchess felt as she did about the late Duke. "My apologies." He bowed to the table.

"Cameron," the elderly lady said in introduction, "this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

The young man appeared mildly surprised. "_Indeed?_" he replied, his smile growing a bit wider. "Well now...I am greatly gratified to meet you both, gentlemen. My Great-aunt Livia is not given to talking about any but those she is impressed by, and she greatly enjoys discussing your cases whenever they appear."

"Good gracious, Cameron!" she retorted quickly, covering herself. "No need to make a mountain out of a molehill! I have informed the doctor prior to this that I have read his writings on occasion. No use turning their heads!" She gathered herself magnificently. "It is my experience that the less men have their opinion of themselves inflated, the better they are as men!"

"Of course, Aunt." Cameron inclined his tow head in a seemingly well practiced sign of submission, though his eyes twinkled noticeably at the denizens of the table before he looked back at her, all innocence and rapt attention. "You are, of course, quite right."

The Duchess harrumphed and then looked up at her nephew, his eyes catching her attention. A flicker passed across her face, and then her look softened somewhat. "Still, you are quite right." She patted his arm lightly. "I would not do as I intend to do for Miss Thurlow and Mr. Holmes if I were not impressed with them both."

"Miss Thurlow?" Cameron repeated, looking to the table again. "_The_ Miss Thurlow of whom you wrote to me last year?"

Helen did her best to hide her surprise at that, wondering why the Duchess would have written to her nephew about her of all people. The answer came quickly and left her crimson with embarrassment.

"Quite," the Duchess confirmed with a sharp nod. "But as usual, my boy, your tardiness has served you ill. Miss Thurlow is newly engaged to Mr. Holmes. You have lost your chance."

Cameron's lips pulled up and slipped back into sobriety so quickly if one blinked one would have missed it. "I see..." He turned his attention to Helen, who had been indicated by the sweep of his aunt's hand. "Miss Thurlow, it is a very great pleasure to meet you, and I am entirely sure had I known you better the loss would have been unbearable." His eyes danced as he bowed.

Still a little off balance, Helen simply nodded and gave him a small smile. "Thank you. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Taking her outstretched hand, he returned her smile, clearly finding his great-aunt's matchmaking amusing in the extreme. "And may I congratulate you, Mr. Holmes," he continued, turning to the detective, who appeared uncomfortable for a moment before taking his hand.

"Thank you," he replied. "Though, for the moment, I would be obliged if you did not speak of it to your acquaintances."

"Yes, Cameron." His aunt took his arm. "We have a deliciously surreptitious party to arrange." Her vivid eyes gleamed at the combination that lay before her. "I have taken it upon myself to give an engagement party for Miss Thurlow and her beau. Considering their love of mystery both in their public and private lives, I think it will be an entirely suitable soirée."

Cameron's brow flickered a little in confusion. "Aunt?"

"I shall explain it further to you once we are seated again," she instructed him, signalling a return to their table with a sweep of her cane. "Helen." She turned her eyes to the auburn haired woman again. "I shall see you and your party on Tuesday." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, Your Grace," Helen said immediately. "And thank you again, Your Grace."

With a regal nod of her head and a tap on her nephew's arm, the Duchess moved away like a galleon at full sail, gliding through the crowd back to her private booth.

Once she was gone, Helen sat heavily in her chair. "Oh dear."

"By Heaven, she's a force," Watson breathed as he too sank back down into his chair, his eyes wide.

Mary managed to sit much more gracefully, but there was now a hint of anxiety in her eyes as well, the prospect of paying a call to a woman much higher in social standing than she could ever wish to be looming large again.

Holmes, for his part, sat down with a sour expression, facing not only an extended social occasion at the Duchess's for at least a weekend...but being one of the centres of attention to boot! "If she were not who she was, and had she not occasioned to outrageous emotional blackmail, I would happily feign some way out of it."

"How?" Watson half chuckled. "Surely not by illness. You have already feigned blindness and near death this past while...all that is left to you is to feign death itself!"

"Hardly, Watson." Holmes brushed off the comment. "A simple case would suffice."

Watson nodded. "Perhaps, but I suspect that should you embark upon that route, the Duchess would proceed just the same, leaving your fiancée," he raised his glass to Helen, "to carry the banner alone."

Helen's cheeks paled and she quickly took a sip of her champagne to bolster herself. "Perish the thought!" she breathed.

Holmes glanced at her, the first real constraints of marriage hoving into view. Subtle as it was, his freedoms were retreating further. Far more than before, it was not merely himself and Helen, two separate entities embarked upon a single mutually gratifying course. Now he was an engaged man, and there were stronger ties, stronger bonds. The road was the same, but the entities were beginning to merge. He would have to take more cognisance of her activities, for as his fiancée, she was far more constrained as to what she could do and where she could go without him.

He sighed a little as he reached for his glass of champagne, and the clear bell-like sound of crystal upon crystal sang out as his glass touched hers, his answer to her statement succinct, firm, decisive, and delivered with a small smile. "Let it perish, indeed."

* * *

**_Authors' Note: Oh where do I start apologizing for the long, long period between postings? (gulps) Life, summer, and us being entirely too distracted by Doctor Who are, I admit, to blame. :D But here you go...the next chapter. Hope you all enjoy it! Now, would you like some good news? It seems our last two chapters have become three. Unfortunately (or is it fortunately) we couldn't squeeze it all in without either cropping or it looking awful, so it's now spaced out a bit. We're going to start work on it this week. (crosses fingers) But once this story is done...we're going on a brief Holmes sebatical. I'm afraid the Eighth Doctor wants our Plot Bunnies' undevided attention. But rest assured...we will return to Holmes! (rubs hands and cackles...realizes she is cackling...coughs and looks like nothing is amiss)_**

**_We would also both like to say a huge thank you to everyone following this story (and our others) and has read and/or reviewed or even asked where we are! That's been incredibly kind and sweet...and it is nice to know we're missed. (blushes) Thank you. Right...onwards and upwards! -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)_**


	14. Of Duchesses and Doctors

_**Chapter Fourteen: Of Duchesses and Doctors**_

_31st October, 1890_

The fine Palladian house of Northernhay appeared as welcoming through the gathering mist as a hearth fire on a chill eve. And a chill evening it was, as those bundled in the grand brougham sent to fetch them from Exeter Railway Station would freely attest to.

After such a long day travelling southwards to Devonshire from Paddington Station, the sight of the Duchess's home was a great relief to the travelling engagement party. So much so that, unused to the rigours of such ventures, the three ladies uttered audible sighs which were met by a shared smile between Holmes and Watson.

Helen and Mary, along with Lady Margaret, had been informed by the Duchess that she had chosen her own family's Northernhay above the Ducal estates in Monmouth in southern Wales for this gathering for three reasons. One -- the slightly more temperate climate, which at her age was a great boon; two -- its lesser conspicuousness but ease of access to Exeter and all its modernity; and three -- her daughter, the Duchess-in-waiting, and her rather large family currently resided at Monmouth Hall, and as much as the Duchess professed to love her grandchildren, she was of the decided opinion that six under the age of ten were excessively noisy when trapped in a house during early winter.

The latter piece of information when relayed by Mary to her husband had piqued the good doctor's interest in the familial background of the Dukes of Monmouth and the Duchess in particular. In turn, he had helped shorten the tedium of the journey considerably by recounting it to his fellow travellers.

Mortimer Alistair Edward St. John Walters had been the Sixth Duke of Monmouth. After an exceptionally wild and rakish youth, he had, by order of his dying father, married his wife, Livia Cecil, a cousin to the Queen and daughter of the Earl of Exeter. By all accounts the new Duchess had done the seemingly impossible and tamed the Duke's excesses without curbing his masculinity and, after their marriage, the two had settled into what was widely regarded as one of the great romances of the day.

Their happiness together had been marred in only one respect, their lack of children. A sad history of miscarriages littered their marriage, until finally at the surprisingly late age of thirty-five, and after almost an entire nine months of bed rest, the Duchess finally delivered them a healthy daughter.

In other families of lineage this would have proved problematic; however, Watson, with a gleam in his eye that prompted a weary sigh from Holmes, proceeded to regale them with tales of acts of uncommon bravery by a female member of the family in the Twelfth Century. Acts which had ultimately prompted Henry II to afford the family the rare right of succession through the female line, a right which meant that the Duchess inherited the title from her husband, and upon her death, their daughter would take it from her.

By all accounts, the home of the Dukes of Monmouth was palatial. Northernhay, while still grand and designed by the great Palladio himself, was a more modest dwelling than Monmouth Hall, at least by the standards of nobility. For all in all, it still stood within six acres of its own parkland, had twenty rooms, a grand ballroom, a fine library, extensive stables, and a full staff.

The long winding driveway from the gate had soon revealed the Duchess's one remaining great love -- horses, small herds of them grazing freely in the large paddocks all around. Hunters mostly, but also racers and even a few wild ponies, possibly added to create stamina in the breeding stock. It was quite the sight to see them emerge and disappear ghost-like into the growing mist as the carriage travelled along. Helen, however, was struck by the solitary figure amongst them that watched their passing, only to be enveloped in the thin fog as they passed on. A poor day to be outside and no mistake, she thought before her mind quickly returned to eagerness to be within the warm confines of Northernhay itself.

The great portico-ed doorway was opened even before the carriage halted, and a small stream of servants rushed out to help the muffled denizens disembark before attending to their luggage. As they alighted, Holmes aiding Helen and his prospective mother-in-law, and Watson attending to his wife, they were distracted by the approach of a small, elderly man with florid cheeks and a shock of rather unruly white hair and mutton chops. Almost seventy if a day, a little stooped under the weight of that age, and with an odd gait, he was nonetheless dressed in the stiff finery of a butler and carried himself with the unrelenting air of authority that the position demanded. His age, however, was not the only thing that made him an unusual fit for the post.

"You'll be Her Grace's guests then," he addressed them in a thick Irish brogue, his chin raised, his blue eyes bright and far more direct of gaze than one would expect from a servant. In fact, it seemed to them all as if he were evaluating not only their identities but their fitness to be there, his demeanour most definitely not what one would expect of the firm but deferential butler.

Holmes immediately liked him.

"We would indeed, Mr…?" he prompted.

"Lynch, sir," came the reply. "Just Lynch. It's only Mr. Lynch to those as serves in the household staff. And only Liam to Her Grace. You'll be Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I'd imagine?"

"You imagine quite well, Mr…Lynch," Holmes corrected himself, raising a finger to his lips thoughtfully while gazing at the man. "Galway," he said to him. "A racing man…a former jockey? You suffered a fall…an injury to your back…to the fourth or fifth vertebrae. An accident that forced you into service. A much appreciated service, though to the Duke…not the Duchess…despite your presence here at her own familial home."

There was silence for a moment as the butler's pale blue eyes regarded him. "Very insightful to be sure, Mr. Holmes, sir." His tone was exceptionally neutral. "Perhaps, as the ladies is freezin' in this benighted mist, you'd care to continue your insight…inside?" He half turned, his shining shoes crunching on the gravel, and gestured to the great doorway.

"Ah!" Holmes said, remembering himself. "Of course." He smiled at Helen as she entered with her mother, John and Mary following on, leaving Lynch and Holmes to move in together, the small flotilla of servants with the luggage bringing up the rear.

"Me accent, me size, and me walk account for your locatin' me point of origin, me previous profession, and how I came to change it." The butler looked up at him, surprising Holmes further as servants rarely spoke without being spoken to. "But, if I might make so bold, sir, how did you know as it was His Grace I was attached to?"

"Your cufflinks." Holmes gestured with a smile. "They're done in the coat of arms of the Duke of Monmouth, hand made, initialled L.L, and the date on them is commemorative, recent, but pre-dates his marriage to the Duchess. A rare and valuable gift. He held you in great esteem, and a specific date to indicate some singular event, perhaps?"

A slight upturn to his lips, Lynch lifted his eyes to the detective as they entered the high vaulted confines of the squared reception hall, white doors inset into three sides, its ornate plasterwork with white walls offset by the checkerboard effect of the black and white marbled floor. Without an answer, he turned to supervise the tumble of servants and luggage that entered behind them.

"John! Albert!" he barked at two of the young footmen, his voice echoing around the room. "Watch what you're doin' there! Her Grace's guests haven't travelled all this way for you to be destroyin' their luggage with your clumsiness! Take the ladies' baggage to the China and India rooms, Dr. and Mrs. Watson's to the Ottoman rooms, and Mr. Holmes to the Ivy room." He turned and frowned at the pretty parlour maid who was trying not to appear as if she were looking at Holmes. "Mary! Faith girl, would you ever stop lollygaggin' and gapin' and help Mr. Maclaine," he indicated the under butler, "to take the ladies' and gentleman's things! God preserve us, there's to be a great party in this house tomorrow, and it's as if you've all lost what sense you have!"

The assembled guests watched on as Lynch showed no particular interest in preserving a butler's decorum, only in getting the job done. His method worked all the same, his instructions being carried out swiftly. For those familiar with the Duchess, it struck them immediately how fitting a man he seemed for her service.

"Her Grace is with Sir Nicholas and Lady Margaret in the drawin' room." Lynch turned back to them, his cheeks a little redder. "You'll be comin' with me if you please." He indicated towards a white door in the wall in front of them as the under butler and maid took their things and withdrew.

Escorting them through the squared atrium and opening the doorway, he led them into a secondary, oval hallway, where stairs curled downwards on either side ahead of them, rooms lying to their left and right. Decorated in rich, warm woods, the hallway was a contrast to the cool white and black of the previous room. But this did not draw the eye, rather the guests were taken by the immense portrait placed between the curves of the two stairways -- a portrait of a strapping man of about thirty-five dressed in riding clothes that would have been in fashion some forty years previous.

A mane of curled hair hung down to his shoulders, framing a strong-jawed face filled with pride and the surety of position. Arrogance, however, was tempered by the humour that emanated from a pair of startlingly violet eyes. Around his feet lay two hounds, one sleeping, the other merely reclining, while their master stood there riding crop in hand, a landscape of rolling countryside and a grand home twice to three times the size of this laid out behind him.

"The late Duke of Monmouth, do you suppose?" Watson wondered aloud.

"Without doubt," Holmes replied, noting the size of the portrait. "It seems Her Grace's regard for him was as grand in scope as it was in duration."

"His eyes are most impressive," Mary said softly.

"They were even more so in life," Alice commented.

Everyone turned to her in surprise. "You were acquainted with him," Holmes stated, an enquiry not necessary.

Alice looked amused. "Yes. I met him once or twice in my youth during the Seasons. I was not always as I am now, Sherlock."

"Ah...the connections made during one's youth..." Watson eyed her with a slight smile, picking up on a certain regard for the man, perhaps a flirtation.

Her eyebrow arched as her amber eyes glittered, almost as if she could read his thoughts. "A friendly acquaintance," she conceded. "His loyalty to his wife was absolute and I had my Arthur." A slight tinge of sadness crept into her eyes before she turned them back to look at the portrait. "It was very, very long ago..."

Helen's hand touched her mother's arm, giving it a loving squeeze, though she looked perplexed. "But, Mama, you never said you were acquainted. All this time…even during the Duchess's…" she flushed slightly, "matchmaking."

"What was there to say?" Alice replied, gazing at her levelly. "It would have changed your situation and relations with her not a jot. And if she chose not to say anything, I would not embarrass her by bringing it up in case you mentioned it and she did not remember me in turn. My family was reduced aristocracy, hers had royal blood, and after my marriage and…illness…I was removed still further from society. I would not hold it against her if she did not remember me." Her attention returned to the portrait. "Besides, it was her husband I encountered more than she."

"A most imposing looking individual," Holmes pronounced.

"Indeed he was," the Duchess agreed from the doorway to the left where she stood leaning on her cane, having emerged unheard, "and imposing in fact...as Mrs. Thurlow says...not just in features."

Helen nearly jumped in surprise as her mother turned much more unhurriedly.

The Duchess's eyes fell on Alice and there was a momentary pause before she moved forward. "Mrs. Thurlow." She extended her free hand. "How long it has been and how well you look."

"Your Grace," Alice said with a smile and a small curtsey while taking her hand. "I thank you. You, too, are looking well. I discern you have been riding."

The Duchess smiled a little. "Perceptive as ever, I see...and as forthright." The Duchess looked from Alice to her rather off-balance daughter, Helen still grappling with the knowledge that her mother and the Duchess had an acquaintance of any sort. "As I recall, Miss Thurlow, your mother was the bane of her family's existence during her first season. Her ability to see past facade and, even more horrendously, to speak the truth of it cost her more beaus of high position than even she knew of. It was of no great surprise to either my husband or I when we heard she had become enamoured with a man who was her equal in speaking his mind and acting upon it in every way. Though Mortimer was always of the opinion Arthur Thurlow was never good enough for her..." Her own clear eyes came back to Alice. "Unlike most men of society, he had a deep regard for truth…and for your mother, cultivated over the Season's acquaintance."

"And I for him," Alice replied with a smile. "He was a good man and true to his friends. He is most keenly missed." Her eyes filled with sympathy and understanding. "I know it is a deal too late, but you have my deepest condolences on your loss, Your Grace. I would have written to you myself; however...my personal circumstances were such that…." Her words trailed off as she took a light breath. "I must thank you for everything you have done for my daughter. You have been most kind to her with your time and generosity."

"It was nothing at all," the Duchess answered, Helen listening avidly, as some of the mystery that had long plagued her as to why this grand woman of society should begin to care about her welfare was wiped away. "Mortimer was not in good health when the unhappiness occurred between you and Arthur. He would not have wished to have seen you ostracised from society so...no matter what the custom. It was...I'm afraid...some years before I recovered sufficiently from his loss to be myself again," she said quietly. "So much so that I confess I had not thought of your circumstances at all. Despite the name, it was with some shock I discovered that my nephew's house guest, Lady Margaret Sotherby's companion, was your daughter." A corner of her mouth turned up as she regarded Helen. "And almost as precocious as her mother and father combined."

Helen's cheeks flushed a light rose as she glanced at her mother and replied, "Then I am in good company."

Alice smiled at her daughter in deep affection.

"Indeed!" The Duchess's cane tapped the floor, the sound echoing around the room. "And one of the reasons, young lady, why I saw to it that you should be properly wed to a suitable young man. Couldn't have a second generation of the women of your family blundering around." She sniffed. "Though as it happens, devil take you," she said lightly, "you did much as your mother did and made your own...probably unsuitable..." she eyed Holmes with vague amusement, "match. And how are you, Mr. Holmes?"

"I am as ever, Your Grace," he replied, matching her amusement with the slight incline of his head.

"I am sorry to hear that." Her eyes danced as she looked at him before turning her attention to the others. "And Dr. Watson and his charming wife...you are both welcome to Monmouth Hall."

"Your Grace." Watson bowed lightly as his wife curtsied gracefully.

"Ah, Liam!" The Duchess's gaze fell on her elderly retainer. "Be so good as to have the tea served now."

"I would, Your Grace, but cook has taken a fit of the vapours," he replied, returning her steady look and speaking almost conversationally with her.

"_Whatever_ for?" the Duchess demanded.

The butler's eyes darted at Holmes, and then back to her. "The blasted woman's convinced that we're to be murdered in our beds. She reads entirely too many of them penny dreadfuls of yours."

The Duchess coloured vaguely under his words and drew herself up, her tone imperious. "You will tell Mrs. Hays that she is to compose herself. That the occupations of our house guests signify nothing, and if _she_ wishes to remain here, she will stop having the upstairs maids retrieve my discarded reading materials for her! The idea!" she huffed, turned, and swept into the withdrawing room. "And mind your manners!" she called back to him as an afterthought.

"Yes, Your Grace." Lynch sighed in the manner of one who had had the same order conveyed to him over and over again, and had breached it over and over again without particular care. An impression that was further conveyed by the slight shake of his head he gave as he wandered away, the group watching him in fascination.

Holmes smiled lightly, amused as ever by non conformity. "Shall we?" He indicated to the ladies.

"That man!" the Duchess carped as she made her way into the warm and excellently appointed room. "It is no wonder my daughter insisted on engaging another butler and sending Liam here to Northernhay. Even after all these years, he has no real concept of his place at all!"

"But a firm and real concept of loyalty and sacrifice, even friendship -- the reason you have kept him so long in your service," Holmes commented as Margaret and Nicholas rose from their seats. Prince, the Duchess's beloved Jack Russell, made a beeline for Helen's skirts and after a quick reconnaissance with his twitching nose, promptly halted her in her tracks by rearing up to put his two front paws on her, seeking recognition and a mandatory scratch behind his ears.

The Duchess, meanwhile, turned back to Holmes in a swish of lavender silk, one perfectly arched eyebrow high. "Do you intimate, Mr. Holmes, that I number servants among my friends?"

"I would never dream of intimating such a thing, Your Grace." His double edged answer came with another slight inclination of his head. She eyed him closely, her piercing eyes narrowing, the cane in her hand tapping lightly upon the rich carpet beneath their feet. Margaret and Nicholas stood where they were, all greetings silenced as the conversation between Holmes and the Duchess took centre stage.

Her chin rose slightly, her eyes sparkling as she decided to find him amusing. Her cane stilled. "I sense the great detective has it in his mind that he knows the precise reason for my butler's presence here." Her tone held a note of challenge as all eyes turned to him.

"Perhaps not precise, Your Grace," Holmes replied after a moment. "But I would venture to say that he was a favourite of your husband due to the gift he wears upon his sleeves." He raised his own cuffs to make a point. "His service with the Duke predating your knowledge of your husband. And as the Duke was a noted horseman, and Lynch a jockey, I would say that the injury that precluded Lynch's continuing in the Sport of Kings and still evident in the weakness in his left leg was sustained in the saving of your husband's life at a youthful age. Young men with intense common interests, even though they be of diverse backgrounds, often form close attachments." He gave her a devilish look. "Friendships even. And your husband took him into his service upon Lynch's recovery when it was learned he could no longer ride. No doubt initially into personal service as his valet, where he could train him in private."

The gazes in the room turned in almost perfect unison back to the Duchess, who stood there regarding him silently, impassively, until her nose wrinkled slightly. "He was the most dreadful valet." She sighed, turning and moving to sit on her chair by the fire upon. "In the early days of our marriage, I would almost have to supervise him to ensure that Mortimer did not emerge wearing riding habit, morning, noon, and night!" She sat herself down with a sigh. "Thankfully, he showed a great deal of common sense in other areas and has proved an excellent butler…at least in all things that don't require him to show too much humility. He has never suffered fools gladly, a reason I never had him brought to London. There are a deal too many fools there and unlike my country neighbours, they would not have put up with his behaviour."

"Do you fear for tomorrow night, then?" Margaret addressed her while making her way slowly towards Helen, around where Prince was dancing on his hind legs. "Might he…offend?"

The Duchess's eyes turned to her, and those present were fairly sure a wicked, almost anticipatory, gleam passed through them before she sniffed and appeared determined. "I shall be speaking with him at length before the affair."

Margaret coughed slightly to quell the slight chuckle that bubbled up at that gleam. She and the Duchess had, over the course of their acquaintance, discovered a shared mischief in each other that delighted them both…quietly and decorously, naturally.

"So," Nicholas said to the new arrivals as Margaret reached Helen, "here at last, I see."

"Indeed!" Helen smiled at him in relief, trying to take Margaret's hands while Prince danced between them, seeking attention. "Maggie, it's so good to see you," she greeted her. "You look positively radiant today."

Margaret smiled at her friend and squeezed her hands, rolling her eyes a little at the little dog, who, it seemed, was allowed almost free rein. "Why thank you...but not nearly so much as yourself. You're positively glowing!"

Helen's could not help the way her smile widened on her lips.

"Yes..." the Duchess commented, spreading her sumptuous skirts a little more evenly, "and after such a cold and tediously long day's travel too. No doubt it was the company." Her eyes drifted from Helen to Holmes, who had summoned the dog from the ladies' way and was in the midst of giving the ecstatic Prince a belly rub, much to her approval.

Helen's cheeks flushed, unable to deny it, her speechlessness returning as it often did in the older woman's presence. Her eyes sought her fiancé, a warmth and delight at her new found circumstances, and his presence here after yet more days apart, all too evident.

"Sit. Sit," the Duchess ordered them briskly, tired of them milling about. "Now, I wish to…" she began as they moved to take their chairs, only for the doors to the drawing room to open again. Mr. Cameron Scott, the Duchess's great nephew, entered the room with flushed cheeks and a riding crop in his hand.

"Ah..." He smiled on seeing the newcomers. "I see our most important guests have arrived, Aunt."

"I should hope you do," she sniffed, unhappy at being interrupted in her thoughts. "Otherwise I should recommend spectacles. Which, by the looks of it, you require, young man!" She pointed her cane at the window. "Riding in this weather? You could have broken your neck…or worse, the horse's!"

Cameron flashed a winning smile at his great aunt, his face flushed after his ride -- his love of horses seemingly as strong as the rest of his family's. "I am too good a rider to risk that, Great Aunt Livia." He crossed over to kiss her cheek. "I had far too fine a teacher." He flattered her shamelessly, which she accepted with a haughty sniff before he moved to shake the newly arrived gentlemen's hands, and as per etiquette, moved to Mary as the married woman and then to Helen, now seated by Margaret, at the last.

"Miss Thurlow, you are above all most welcomed. I hope you enjoy everything that is to come. Lady Margaret here..." he flashed a surprisingly direct and rather lingering smile at the dark haired woman beside her, "has spent much of today regaling me with tales of you and your likes and dislikes. We hope that this weekend will meet with your strongest approval."

Helen looked over at Margaret in surprise and then stifled back a sigh at the restrained, but decidedly flirtatious gleam in her dearest friend's eyes. "I am sure I shall enjoy this weekend immensely, Mr. Scott," she replied with a smile. "And it was very kind and thoughtful of Her Grace and yourself to host us."

"All my aunt, I assure you," he returned with a smile of his own. "I'm merely a hanger on, following in her wake hoping to alleviate my impoverished state by currying favour with a relative in the hopes of inheriting something in her will." He shot an impish look at the Duchess, who snorted and tapped her cane.

"All you'll get from me, young man, if you don't curb your roguishness, is the cuff around your ear I kept telling your mother you needed when you were growing up," she informed him, that same gleam of affection for him they had seen in the restaurant present in her eyes again. "I swear but you and Liam are a pair. Somehow, despite all my best efforts, I have surrounded myself with impudent men in my old age. I blame my husband for trying to turn Irishmen into valets and butlers and taking a shine to a cheeky six year old who pulled Princess Beatrice's pigtails at a garden party."

Alice, now seated opposite the Duchess by the fire, chuckled under her breath.

"They were very pretty pigtails, Aunt," Cameron complained as he took a seat. "I never could resist a fine head of hair upon a lady." His eyes moved again to Margaret, only to have his gaze temporarily obscured by Nicholas as he moved between their line of vision to seat himself near Holmes.

"Couldn't agree more," the dark haired peer replied in the most relaxed of fashions as he watched with some vague amusement the flirtation between his wife and Mr. Scott, the air of a man absolutely secure in his wife's affections radiating from him. "Which is why we are most fortunate in the company of all the ladies here...wouldn't you say?"

"Without doubt," Cameron replied instantly and genially, a civilised understanding of the subtle game going on absolutely paramount between the gentry. A game that was more than a little perplexing to Watson who, like Helen, could see the way Cameron was flirting in a reciprocal manner with Margaret and was not approving.

He glanced at Holmes only to find, somewhat worryingly, that his friend's attention had already wandered, Prince having seconded himself upon his lap, the detective scratching his ears as he gazed absently into space, unengaged by the conversation around him.

"And upon the subject of company," the Duchess said, drawing all attention back to her, "as I was about to ask before I was interrupted…" She paused, eyeing Cameron. "May I ask, Mr. Holmes, are you content with the guest list I drew up with your fiancée and her friends?"

Holmes slid back from his thoughts of the work he would rather be doing and looked across at her, his tone offhand. "As content as a man in my position can be."

Watson shifted and glanced at Helen briefly, concerned that Holmes's notorious boredom regarding these affairs might make itself known and ruin what should be a joyous weekend. So far in the days leading up to their trip, Holmes had made no complaint, having given his undertaking to do this for his fiancée, but he had been occupied then by other things. Now there was nothing but three days of society ahead of him, and Watson knew from experience just how unconcerned Holmes could be with social niceties.

He also knew far too well how his friend could react.

The doctor smiled broadly at the Duchess. "Indeed," he agreed with Holmes quickly, intent on 'clarifying' and smoothing over any perceived asperity. "As Holmes and I were remarking to one another just the other day, these events are the purview of the female. And when it comes to it, the men at the centre of the storm can do little but allow themselves to be guided by their ladies' hands. Holmes, I know, trusts Helen's judgement as much as I would trust my wife's and is content in it." He laid his hand over Mary's and squeezed it gently.

"Ah…" The Duchess nodded, her eyes lingering on the detective as the door opened and Liam entered with a tray, the parlour maid following him. "I see."

The trays containing refreshments served in the most exquisite Georgian silver service were laid before them.

"You'll be glad t'know that the cook is fully…recovered…Your Grace," Liam said without waiting to be asked. "And them penny dreadfuls burn up a royal treat. We boiled the water for your tae over them. There's also hot water for ladies 'n gentlemen's ablutions should they be wantin' them after their journey."

Favouring efficiency over form, the Duchess nodded her approval and turned to her recently arrived guests. "Then I suggest we take tea and allow our voyagers to rest, bathe, and change for dinner." Her cane hit the floor, without her waiting to hear any confirmation or denial from her guests. "Liam...you may pour."

* * *

"Pass me my collar, Watson, on the bed there." Holmes slipped on his white waistcoat whilst standing in front of the full length mirror in his room.

Watson turned from examining the rich, gold thread veined, green flock wallpaper shaped like the ivy that gave the room its name and picked up the item in question, handing it over to his friend. Stopping by the mirror, he checked his moustache, having finished his own dressing and vacated his room to allow Mary, Alice, and Helen, all without maids, to help dress each other and style their hair.

"I sincerely hope the standard of conversation at dinner veers beyond what we were offered earlier," Holmes commented as he affixed the collar with his studs.

Watson's brow furrowed slightly as he gave a quick nod. "Yes...well, according to Mary such conversation is the norm in homes of Quality."

"Then it's no wonder the Quality are so often brought to slumming, scandal, and _affaires de couers_ to alleviate the tedium," his friend replied waspishly.

Watson gave him a look. "Now, now, Holmes," he chided the detective lightly. "Though that said, I did find Lady Margaret's behaviour a little...well, overt. And in front of her husband too! Not that he seemed to mind either!" He huffed and shook his head, perplexed. "I couldn't imagine Mary or Helen acting so."

Holmes smiled a little but without any real mirth. "Nobility's diversions take strange forms. I'd imagine Sir Nicholas knows full well his wife is merely finding a little diversion in another man's flattering attentions. And whereas you would take offence, no doubt he takes a kind of pride in her being sought after." He reached for his tie and slipped it around his neck.

Watson sniffed. "That makes no sense at all," he insisted. "Beauty or no, she is a married woman. There are plenty of other women out there who are not that he may pay his attentions to."

"Yes..." Holmes's fingers worked his tie into a neat bow. "But why risk entanglement and being forced into an engagement for a bit of harmless flirtation, when one can receive the admiration of a woman without risking one's bachelorhood? And given that the only woman present who is not married is Helen, I would be just as content if he continued to confine his attentions to Lady Margaret."

Aware of the immorality of the idea, but unable to put his finger on the actual transgression, the doctor sighed and moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a drink of water. "So you would not take the same pride of your fiancée being sought after?" he asked with a light tone to disguise his amusement.

"Unfounded, unreasoning jealousy is a waste of time and energy that would best be used elsewhere," Holmes replied, glancing at Watson in the mirror as he buttoned up his tiny waistcoat buttons.

"So...you wouldn't mind then?"

Holmes gauged his answer. "I don't believe so. Not unless I felt the jealousy was warranted and that Helen had feelings for the man." Turning, he moved to the bed and picked up his cigarette case. "Or if I were not there to ensure the man's attentions remained purely on the flirtatious level."

Watson nodded slowly as he sipped his drink. "Then you are a better man than I," he replied, holding up his drink as though in a toast. "I do not think I'd be so understanding nor approve at all."

"Why, Watson!" Holmes regarded his friend with some humour as he removed a cigarette and tapped it up on his silver case. "Do I understand you'd be moved to give the man in question a thrashing?"

The doctor sniffed. "Not so far as that, old man. But a stern talking to or clear signal his attentions are not welcome, for certain."

"A shame." Holmes sighed, lighting his cigarette. "I would have appreciated the break in the tedium to come had Mr. Scott chosen to turn his attentions to Mary…and you had been spurred to husbandly action!" he teased before laying himself rather forcefully with the bed with a small jump. Another sigh escaped him as he shifted restlessly.

"Without doubt, Watson, I would rather be almost anywhere than here at this moment." He glanced across at the doctor. "I can tell you almost word for word how this evening's conversation will go -- more pleasantries over gowns and hair to be shared among the ladies...leading to a discussion of the latest styles both of the past season and upon the continent. This may or may not lead to some discussion of the state of Europe...but this will not last long, sliding instead into some _fascinating _discussion about wine or cuisine. Perhaps...if we are very lucky...there will be some talk of music...and then will come dinner and _the questions_." He winced at the very idea.

"Every facet of our future married lives will be none too subtly poked and prodded as if by some surgeon of your acquaintance...which, by the by, will be a process that will be repeated by almost every guest invited to this engagement party," he informed Watson. "Then once dinner is over, the ladies will take Helen aside and pepper her with questions of women's issues and barrage her with even more advice...while you gentlemen will make light about the loss of my bachelorhood and embark upon whatever tangent that presents to you before we are rejoined again."

He drew on his cigarette forcefully, his face resolving itself into a deep frown before his eyes moved to his small leather carrier bag which lay unopened upon the dresser. His gaze lingered for a moment before sliding away as he crossed his legs and slipped one arm behind his head.

"It's not in there," Watson told him quietly, sipping on his water and looking elsewhere.

Holmes's eyes turned back to him. "I beg your pardon?"

Taking a deep breath and putting the glass down, Watson turned his eyes back to his friend, resoluteness in them. "I removed your syringe and solution before we left Baker Street."

Holmes sat up slowly, his gaze piercing him right through. "I see," he said in almost icy calm tones. "And by what right did you effect to go through and remove my personal belongings?"

"Because I feared exactly that this would happen. That the weekend would bore you to such an extent you might succumb to your...to the need to stimulate your mind." He paused. "Did you give any thought, though, to how that might affect Helen? Have you even told her yet of your recreational use?"

"To what end?" Holmes rose from the bed, his voice growing sharper. "It makes no odds. And you had no right to remove it, Watson."

"It is one thing to chemically drown your brain when you are alone, Holmes, but quite another when you are the guest of someone else and your fiancée is relying on you to be in possession of all your wits." He folded his arms across his chest. "Think of this as a challenge. To find a way to alleviate your 'boredom' without shooting that ichor into your veins."

"Again…" Holmes took a step closer. "By _what_ right?" he demanded.

"Because friends look out for one another," Watson said simply.

"And this is what you are. My friend, Watson. _Not_ my physician!" he said coldly as Watson flinched inwardly at his tone. "And I would point out to you that your..._ichor_...is available to me at any chemists and requires no doctor's prescription as doctors freely ascribe it as helpful. And so it is to me. It is a stimulant, and rather than removing my wits, it allows me to sharpen them!" He turned away from him in disgust. "You have overstepped your bounds, Watson, and condemned me to an evening of unrelieved tedium!"

"And yet you still have not told Helen about it," Watson said quietly, having prepared himself throughout the day for Holmes's expected tirade but never happy at being at the brunt of it. Still, he had brought this upon himself by his actions, so he would simply have to reap what he sowed. "If you are so blasé about it, why haven't you told her?"

Holmes's shoulders rose as he drew himself up to his full imposing height before turning back. "Because there is nothing to tell!" He glared at the doctor. "You persist on seeing this as some kind of evil! While to me, it is no more insidious or worthy of mentioning to her than the fact I drink tea or smoke a pipe. It is a comfort and aid to me and that is all. She will learn of its use in time. If I have not said anything, it is only because of the use of the syringe which alarms a great many people...you too it seems!"

Watson watched him, outwardly calm and having expected, for the most part, what his friend's answer would be. He knew very well why Holmes had not mentioned his stimulant use to Helen. It was the same reason why he injected himself when alone or hid it from his friend when he walked into a room. Because he was embarrassed by it...on some level, no matter the bravado, he knew he was growing more reliant on it...and he was scared. Scared Helen would find such behaviour disturbing and possibly reconsider her relationship with him. To most, such use really was nothing...but Holmes had a great brain, and Watson knew there was no possible way that even _he_ could delude himself that putting something constantly into himself was doing 'nothing'.

Of course telling Holmes all this, Watson knew much to his dismay, would do little good. Indeed, it would only make the detective grind his heels in more in a fit of sheer petulance. And so the doctor came to a decision and with sigh, shrugged his shoulders and quietly resigned himself to yet another lost battle where Holmes's cocaine use was concerned.

"Well, it is only another two days. By Sunday you will be back at Baker Street and you can do as you wish."

"You owe me an apology, Watson," Holmes informed him, taking up his coat and fetching his cigarette case. "You rifled through my belongings like a common houseman and violated my trust in you." Sliding his coat on, he turned to him. "I will expect your apology to me by the evening's end or there shall be repercussions for our friendship."

His tone was startlingly firm, his eyes steady and hard with anger in them -- whether born from his own guilt and weakness, or from Watson's invasion of his privacy, or both it was not clear. But despite all their years together, Watson knew very well, and with a twinge of hurt, that Holmes would carry out his threat, for the detective never spoke idly, and that he could do little to aid his friend from the outside looking in.

Watson nodded tiredly, his shoulders sagging as he gave up. It grieved him deeply to see his dear friend misuse his body so, but in the end, it _was_ Holmes's decision and life to do with as he saw fit. "Very well, old man, you have my apologies," he told him sincerely enough, though he didn't bother to say he still felt he did the right thing. "I thought it was for the best, and I did it because you are my friend...but I would not have our friendship ruined over it. I am sorry to have angered you so."

Regarding him, his jaw tight and hands clenched, Holmes stood there in silence for a long moment before nodding, some of the tautness in his body easing.

"Very well, Watson," he said, looking down at his waistcoat and tugging it more neatly into place. "We shall say no more of it, and I trust we shall not be having this conversation again. Now if you will excuse me, I feel the need for a little night air. I will see you before dinner." Without waiting for a reply, he crossed over to the door and out, leaving the doctor alone.

Watson watched him go from the doorway, saddened that he had had to take such a risk and yet, he still could not help but believe he had done the right thing for everyone concerned. Sometimes, as loathe as the great man was to admit, Holmes needed someone to look out for him for a change.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Helen, it seemed that Holmes's fears regarding the evening's events were well-founded…and almost frighteningly accurate. So much so that she would not have, and did not, blame him a jot for his barely focused attention throughout dinner. In fact, if she had not been peppered with so many questions and looks, or had had a suitable excuse, she would have found a way to leave the whole meal early. She had even considered feigning a headache, but that would have left Sherlock on his own, would not have solved anything, and a headache being the staple excuse for all women to rise and leave, entirely too flimsy. No, it would have been far too rude, and if Helen was conscious of anything it was that she, unlike her fiancé, immensely disliked the thought of being rude or being thought rude.

And so she had been trapped making light conversation before dinner about a variety of topics, from fashion -- in English society as well as the latest trends from Paris and Italy -- to some small talk on the affairs of Europe and how the Empire was faring…which, she had to admit, had been fairly interesting. It was interrupted, however, by the call to dinner, something she'd been quietly thrilled with for the chance to focus on something that did not involve her concentrating so hard that her head ached.

Unfortunately, discussion of the Empire ended there as someone made the fatal error of mentioning a very fine portrait of a pair of hunters hanging on the dining room wall. The Duchess's eyes had lit and the topic immediately switched to horses and hunting, which had then changed to cuisine and the various new dishes arriving in restaurants, and so on and so on.

As Helen had tasted her soup, she had shot Margaret an almost envious look at how easily she'd handled the conversation as well as herself, though she had to admit she did not approve of the continuous flirtatious dialogue between her and Mr. Scott, not that she would ever dare breathe a word of it to her friend. She knew it was harmless, but it just seemed so…well…rude. _Especially_ with Nicholas sitting right there. Her lack of education in the intricacies of flirtation was a loss she did not particularly regret.

Once the dinner plates had been cleared, talk once again shifted, but this time -- as Holmes could have and would have told her had she asked -- the focus was to be their upcoming marriage. A subject her fiancé had left firmly in the hands of herself and her mother. The questions had been carefully phrased at first, though as all interrogations were, for once one answered a question, it gave leave for even more questions that were more pointed.

Yes, the wedding would be at St. Albans Cathedral. Yes, she would be moving to Baker Street to live with him there. Yes, her brothers would continue to live with her mother in St. Albans. No, her mother did not mind, but was in fact looking forward to it. Yes, she would be visiting them there often. Yes, she would continue to run her father's business until her brothers were of age. No, Sherlock had no objections to this. And again, so on and so on.

And after dessert had finished, the men remaining to smoke their cigars and drink their brandy, the ladies retiring to settle in the drawing room to drink tea and talk some more, the questions had only gotten worse…and so thinly veiled she had seen through them before they had even been asked.

Questions of her clothes and her trousseau had been followed by advice on being a proper wife and running a home -- not that she was not doing that already -- and even more embarrassing, a husband's needs and would they be having children? How many? And _how_ would they fit them all into somewhere so _small_ as Baker Street?

Helen could have leapt for joy when the men returned surprisingly early. Though judging from the slight twitch on her fiancé's lips, that had been from his design – either from some mischief or the simple lack of any clear, concise answers to their enquiries. Knowing his desire and insistence on privacy where his personal life was concerned, she guessed it was his lack of answers with a mix of heavy mischief. He had probably made it all into a game of cat and mouse…with the other men as the mice, and simply turned the tables on them and before they knew it, they were discussing themselves more than him. She found herself smiling fondly at her fiancé merely at the thought.

Though as the other men took their seats and greeted the ladies, she noted that her fiancé kept more to the back. As discussion began anew, and thankfully on something other than her or her marriage, his attention grew less and less focused on the gathering and more on some distant point in his mind, his eyes wandering absolutely everywhere in the room before finally fixing on the door to the conservatory.

Not for the first time, she wondered what he was thinking, and then wondered if she'd ever really know. Her attention, however, was soon diverted back to the discussion at hand as Margaret's bell-like laugh rang out over something Helen assumed was incredibly witty that Mr. Scott had told her.

A mere ten minutes later, her attention was mildly distracted again from a particularly _riveting_ discussion regarding the daughter of the Earl of Buckingham's latest unfortunate dress faux pas, when from the corner of her eye, she caught her fiancé disappearing as silently as a shadow into the softer lit conservatory.

Trying to appear that she had not noticed at all and that the discussion was incredibly interesting, she waited all of five minutes before managing to disengage herself from the circle and make her way to the glass doors. Assured no one had outwardly, at least, noticed her, she stepped inside the breathtakingly large conservatory, trying to make it look like nothing more than casual curiosity about the near jungle of flora and a need to stretch her legs.

He was nowhere to be found...of course. If Sherlock Holmes wished to be alone and unseen, he had an uncanny knack of doing just that. And she knew how bored he'd been and though she was incredibly gratified he was there, could not begrudge him his well-timed escape from it.

It was a pity though...she would have liked a few quiet moments alone with him, for it seemed that they would be few and far between this weekend.

Sighing softly, she wandered down one of the myriad walkways designed to show off the well-kept collections of rare exotic plants and trees, taking them in with appreciative eyes. It was a fine collection, the conservatory seemingly designed in miniature after the fashion of some of the great glass houses of Kew Gardens, the moon floating in the black sky above her when she gazed upwards through the roof above.

"Is it permissible for the centre of all attention to be absent?" His voice came from behind and to her right as she stepped into a central area where all the walkways converged upon a delicately pretty fountain and koi pond. "Surely to be caught in such a _dreadful _dereliction of one's duty carries with it the most heinous penalty." He moved forward, his hands behind his back. "A life sentence of attending all society soirees, perhaps?"

Starting a little at the sound, having been rather deep in thought, she turned to him with a small smile. "Not when one is careful not to be seen," she replied, "and has a suitable excuse in hand."

"Oh? And what might that be? Not a headache surely? A vapourish feeling, perhaps? The ague?" he enquired with some humour before coming to stand in front of her.

"A need to stretch my legs and desire to see such glorious examples of foreign flora," she returned. "And if that does not work...I shall tell them I was looking for you." Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

"Why, Miss Thurlow." He feigned astonishment with the lift of one eyebrow. "Even engaged, you are flaunting convention and modesty by seeking me unchaperoned under someone's roof." He tutted lightly. "No, by all means, let your excuse be the flowers; they will never betray one." He gazed around at them admiringly before looking back at her rather sharply a moment later. "And were you?"

"Was I what?" she asked, turning to examine a rather lovely orchid.

"Looking for me."

"Ahhh!" she breathed hiding her smile. "I thought perhaps you meant the flora. It is rather breathtaking." Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, she finally turned to him. "Would you be displeased if I said I was?"

"Vastly." His lips curled slightly.

"Then I shan't," she said, her smile growing.

"Then we shall call the crossing of our paths a most fortuitous coincidence." He inclined his head formally, while his hand slipped out palm up in invitation for her to take it.

"Agreed," she replied, slipping her hand into his, her fingers entwining with his own.

"Are you enjoying the evening?" he asked as they strolled around the pond, examining the impressive array of exotic fish the Duchess had assembled.

"I am enjoying spending time with those closest to me," she answered, glancing up at him.

"An evasive answer, but splendidly diplomatic." He smiled to himself. "We should seek you a position in the Foreign Office."

She chuckled. "I don't think I'd enjoy that very much...though the shipping business is very much the same...or so I hear. In any event, it is Maggie to whom the position should go. How she manages to appear so interested and poised, I shall never know." She glanced at him again. "And I do not think I need to enquire how you are enjoying the evening." Her hand squeezed his sympathetically. "Though I am grateful for your presence. I have missed you these last two weeks."

Stopping, he turned to her, a sudden, unexpectedly intense expression on his face. His voice was low, filled with the sort of warmth that caused shivers and pulled her in. "Have you?"

Her eyes softened, her love for him clear on her face as her free hand rose up to cup his cheek. "Yes...very much so."

A flare of irritation crossed his features and transposed itself to his tone. "We should have told no one!" he snapped. "Merely acquired a special licence and eloped and avoided the dinner that brought us to the Duchess and to _this_ state of affairs." He moved away from her, his brow furrowed, the evening's toll on him exposed and everything about him tensing suddenly. "It's a damnable intrusion and no one's business but our own. Instead of being left to it, we are being paraded at some secret soirée for the amusement of a chosen few like some prize heifers at market, and when not subjected to poking and prodding, made to suffer through the interminable babble that passes for social conversation."

Following after him and concerned with his mood, she took his hands in hers. "Sherlock, we both knew this event would not be easy...for either of us, though granted, perhaps more for you as I know you find such things tiresome. But in the grand scheme of our lives together it is only two nights and three days. Barely the blink of an eye." She kissed his hands to soothe him, inhaling the rich scent of tobacco from his hands, her thumbs brushing his skin.

He paused, his brow still creased, the bubbling frustration brought on by boredom tempered by her touch, watching as she held her hands to his. A lingering moment of silence passed before he spoke. "Perhaps, if we were alone, in the meantime, it would be more bearable," he murmured.

She regarded him quizzically, sensing another meaning to his words than just their stolen moment in a conservatory.

"It would be most welcome," she agreed, her tone coaxing him to continue.

He inhaled slowly, the action seeming to make him taller still as he regarded her. "As you've said, you've noticed my mood is less than...affable...this evening. Normally, I have ways and means of improving my tolerance for such events, beyond leaving...but that is out of the question, and due to circumstances, so are those means."

Her gaze grew even more puzzled as he released her hands to move a step or two away from her, speaking slowly in the manner of a confessional, each word seemingly difficult to admit to. "I fear I shall not sleep well, if at all, and by tomorrow evening I may be a bear. Watson and your good self are among the very few who might at least distract me in this regard. Watson often sits with me of an evening, but Mary is in attendance and I must confess, Watson and I have had some slight falling out of a nature that is not serious. In fact it has been dealt with, but it has left me disinclined to seek his company later tonight when all have retired." He looked back at her over his shoulder, his eyes finding hers before he turned and took the steps back to her, his gaze piercingly intense, consuming, his voice soft. "Might I come to you?"

Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed as she stood there momentarily lost for words, the extra layer of possibility in such a visit not remotely lost on her. She would be lying if she had not hoped just a little that he might wish to seek such intimate company from her again this weekend...even though they were incredibly immodest and wanton thoughts and she would never even think of suggesting it herself. But as he stood there now, gazing at her so intently, capturing her very soul in his eyes, she could not nor would she even think of denying him if he asked. Her stomach did an almost giddy flip-flop, her heartbeat quickening, as she whispered an almost breathless, "Yes."

He took her hand gently, barely seeming to move in the action of it, his features softening. "I shall be discreet," he murmured. "Any suggestion of being seen and I will turn back." The fingers of his other hand found her cheek, brushing it with a whisper of a touch. "These past evenings since we were last together, I have dwelled a great deal upon the absence of your company...and found myself missing it greatly."

"As I have you," she admitted, though her cheeks flushed an even deeper rose to say it aloud.

He said nothing, had no need of it, understanding flowing between them without words, and the air in the conservatory seemed warmer still than when they had entered. Leaning in, he kissed her cheek, his lips just catching the corner of her mouth, his breath warm on her skin, her scent more fragrant than the flowers about him.

A soft breathy sigh tickled his lips, a look of contentment on his fiancée's face, as though she had just come home after a long voyage. "I shall count the minutes," she murmured as her lashes rose again, her words soft but adamant. It was a silly, overly romantic pronouncement, she knew, but she didn't care a jot. She was in love and in his sway, and she would ache a little more every moment they were apart until they were privately reunited once more.

He reined in any comment he might have had about her romanticism to smile a little. "Then be sure to do so quietly and while not losing focus on the rest of your evening." His hand moved gently to the small of her back, guiding her back towards one of the small paths that led back to the drawing room. "Tell them you sought me out on seeing me disappear, but are quite perplexed by my absence. I shall return shortly after, and you may appear as suitably peeved with me as any fiancée has the right to," he instructed her, his lips quirking a little.

She gave him a small smile in return, though she looked a little saddened to be parting from him so quickly. "Very well," she agreed with a sigh.

"Until later..." he assured, seeing her off, his darkened eyes still concentrating wholly upon her, as fixed and focused as she had ever seen them.

* * *

_**Authors' Notes -- I know...it's be ages! blushes and hides But we're baaaack! And indeed promise to be more regular with the last two chapters of this story. Would you believe Chapter Fifteen has been drafted and in edit mode and we're partially finished with Chapter Sixteen (alas...the final chapter). It is our hope to have this finished by Christmas, and indeed we are planning a missing scene chapter for our readers as a small gift in thanks for your patience with us. However, this missing scene will not be posted here. There's a reason, but we will have it available on our yahoo group and another site we post at. **_

_**We would also very much like to say a huge thank you for all your kind thoughts and reviews. We've been having a great deal of fun with this story and you all have been amazing in your response to it. We will be writing more Holmes...but we have a Doctor Who story in the works we really want to get done first. Plus the next Holmes story is going to take a wee bit of extra planning due to the nature of the beast. **_

_**Thank you all again, and please feel free to let us know your thoughts. Hopefully the next chapter will be up in a week or so. -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**_


	15. Echoes of the Future

_**Chapter Fifteen: Echoes of the Future**_

_1st November, 1890_

Watson straightened his dress waistcoat as he observed Holmes speaking to the musicians in the grand ballroom while they began their preparations for the evening. Outside of the beauteous room -- woods, glass, and metals gleaming in the gas and candlelight -- the most final of final touches were being placed about the great house and the drive to it, upon which the evening's guests would soon be wending their way to join the celebratory party.

With a slight crease of his brow, the doctor leaned a little towards his wife, who was observing the exquisitely inlaid parquet floor upon which they would dance that night, and murmured, "Have you seen Holmes?"

Mary looked up at her husband with a bit of surprise, her expression sliding into amusement. "As you have been watching him avidly all day, I must assume you do not mean his location. Why? Is something amiss with him?" she asked, turning her gaze to the future bridegroom.

Shifting slightly by her side, Watson shook his head slowly. "I am not entirely sure. He's very..." he started to say, watching the detective vigorously demonstrate his own bow skills on an imaginary violin to the lead violinist of the orchestra and then nod intently at the answer he received. "Compared to last night, have you found him..." he struggled to try and explain it to her, she having never been witness to one of Holmes's spiralling black moods, "…more animated?"

Her brow furrowed slightly. "Well, he was rather...distant…last night," she admitted. "Though he is always so at such functions. Perhaps that and the long journey made him weary and all he needed was a good night's rest?" She regarded their friend for a moment. "It does seem to have done him a world of good. He's much more interested in events today.""Yes, it would appear so..." Watson scanned his memory, full sure that he had gone over every inch of his friend's belongings to retrieve whatever narcotics he could find. Still, this was Holmes. The man could have hidden some in half a dozen ingenious places that Watson might never have even thought to look. Another sure sign of an addict. With a sigh, he relaxed and continued his thought. "At least with regards to the logistics and preparation of this evening, he and the butler seem to have struck up quite an acquaintance. Wouldn't surprise me if he snuck off to spend the evening in the kitchen after the guests arrived."

Mary's eyebrows rose. "I should hope for Helen's sake he does not! That would be highly embarrassing for her, considering this party is for them." She sighed. "Perhaps you should have a quiet word with him."

A slight look of discomfort slid over Watson's face. "I think perhaps I've had enough quiet words with him for this weekend. I shall, however, keep an eye on him."

The concern crept back into Mary's face. "John...has something occurred between you both?"

"_Hmm?_" He looked back at her swiftly. "Oh. No. Nothing of any great import." He cleared his throat lightly. "Just the kinds of disagreements men have from time to time. It has been settled. It just requires a little...delicacy…in some areas until all has been forgotten."

She gazed at him with raised brows for a moment before nodding and letting the issue drop. "I wonder where Helen is," she enquired, changing the subject.

"She is currently with my wife, engaged in a quite bewildering flurry of gossip and girlish giggling." Sir Nicholas addressed them both and inclined his head as they turned. "Good evening. Mary, if you will forgive the impertinence, you are looking quite stunning this evening."

Mary in return graced him with a soft smile. "Thank you, Nicholas, that is very kind of you to say," she replied.

"Nonsense," he returned gently. "Perfectly true. Your husband is a fortunate man."

"Thank you, Nicholas," Watson smiled at him and then Mary before looking back at him. "As are you in your wife."

Nicholas huffed slightly. "I shall say nothing about that, having been driven from my room. Lord preserve us from ladies together in the midst of their amusements. They are like a pair of sniggering school girls up there," he informed them, the humour in his eyes undercutting his disgruntled air.

Mary lowered her head to hide her smile. "Then perhaps I shall visit them upstairs and encourage them in a hint of rapidity," she replied.

"Oh, I think not!" Nicholas snorted lightly. "Another friend added to the mix? We would not see any of you for hours." His eyes wandered. "Perhaps we should send Holmes there? He seems talkative this evening and is one of the few people I know who can run circles around my wife if she chooses to be stubborn. Besides...he should escort his fiancée down. It is expected, after all."

Mary chuckled and nodded. "Very well. I shall see if I can pry him away from his violin lesson," she agreed, inclining her head to the men and crossing over to where Holmes was with the orchestra.

"And what do you feel about the recent remarks put forth by Maestro..." Holmes paused as Mary reached him. "Mrs. Watson." He gave her a genial glance. "Come to join our discussion of Vivaldi?"

"I fear my knowledge in matters of music is a great deal less than your own, Sherlock, and so I should be far from a suitable discussion partner." She gave him a friendly smile. "Actually, I am here to requisition your assistance on behalf of Helen and Margaret. Nicholas tells me that they may need a bit of a reminder on the time..."

Looking to his watch, Holmes nodded. "The hour is nearly upon us," he intoned and sighed like a man condemned. "Very well," he agreed. "And where am I to find the ladies in question?"

"I believe they are in Margaret and Nicholas's rooms," she answered with a sympathetic smile.

"Robert…" Holmes turned to the violinist he had speaking to. "My thanks for what has been possibly the single most interesting conversation I have had since I came here. I look forward to hearing you play."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes!" Robert half rose from his seat in respect as Holmes turned and strode off through the ballroom.

* * *

"Helen..." Margaret chuckled, "do sit still for heaven's sake, or I'll never get this last bit of hair pinned!" 

The woman in question regarded her appearance in the mirror yet even more closely.

"You are going to force me to tie you to this chair!" Margaret tapped her lightly on the shoulder, glancing out of the window to see the first trickle of carriage lights approach in the dark. "I swear if you get any closer to your reflection, you will touch noses with the mirror! You look like precisely as you did that time in school when I caught you practicing kissing."

Her friend flashed her look via her reflection. "I was doing nothing of the sort. Are you sure these earrings are right with this dress? Are you sure this is the right dress? Perhaps I should wear the blue one?" She gazed down at her deep green gown, her teeth nibbling her lower lip.

"This _is_ the right dress. Those are the perfect earrings. And you were most certainly practicing to kiss in the mirror," Margaret replied with a sigh and a shake of her head. "You will look exquisite...or at least you will if you _sit_ _still and let me finish your hair_!"

Helen sighed and tried to still herself. "Do you think he will like it?" she hedged.

Margaret allowed herself a small smile. "Inasmuch as Sherlock Holmes allows himself to be aware of so trivial a thing as a lady's gown?" Her hands clasped her friend's shoulders as she leaned down and kissed her cheek smiling at the auburn haired woman in the mirror. "He will adore it."

Helen's green gloved hand patted her friend's as she smiled up at her. "Thank you, Maggie," she replied gratefully.

Straightening and returning to her task at hand, Margaret shook her head. "It quite amazes me. Every time I see you, you are more smitten with the man than the time before. And yet as far as I can see, he has hardly changed a whit since that first time I met him."

"Oh, he has changed...but he's a very private man, Maggie, and does not show his personal feelings lightly. Rather like Nicholas." She flashed her friend a smile before sighing and squirming again. "But I think after this party I'm going to have to have a word with my maid. She promised me she'd altered this dress to fit."

She fidgeted with the bust line of her gown and sighed again. "No matter. There is nothing I can do about it now."

"And there is nothing you need to worry about. It's clear that your maid has been keeping abreast of fashion trends as all good maids should...your bust line is perfectly in keeping with the season," Margaret assured her, finally finishing her pinning and going for a diamond clip.

"I suppose..." Helen relented, eyeing the tight bodice and shaking her head, catching sight of her friend's gown again. "I do love your gown though, Maggie. It really suits you."

Quietly pleased, Margaret swished her royal blue skirts a little. "Yes...I am rather pleased with it. My new dressmaker is a treasure. It's such a pity you are marrying so swiftly; she would've been perfect to create your trousseau. Still, I suppose, you are going to Paris on your honeymoon! I fully expect to be pea green with envy when you return." She smiled at her. "Are you looking forward to it?"

"To my marriage or Paris?" Helen asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"As if there could be any doubt at all..." Margaret said sweetly, "Paris, of course."

Helen couldn't help but chuckle under her breath as she turned to regard her friend more directly, her smile growing. "Oh yes!" she agreed. "I am rather...I've always wished to see it and going at last on my honeymoon, no less, will make the trip even more special."

"No doubt..." her friend replied before her own look turned a trifle wicked. "That is, if you have the time to get to see all you wish to."

Helen's eyebrow arched. "Why, we are there three weeks! I should hope we do have plenty of time," she replied.

Margaret chuckled to herself. "One would think, wouldn't one? Then again, Mr. Holmes _is _unique amongst men, so perhaps you shall."

Helen eyed her a little more, quite aware what her friend was getting at but deciding to play along. "Why, Maggie, whatever could you mean?" she asked innocently.

Margaret went to answer before pausing, narrowing her eyes, and then inhaling slowly. "You're hiding something!" Her eyes lit up as she scooted across to Helen swiftly. "_Aren't _you?"

Helen blinked, her surprise genuine. "Whatever do you mean?" she repeated. "I merely asked you a question!"

"Oh heavens, Helen, you know you haven't been able to fool me since our first day in school together. _That_ look, that innocent look, that is about as innocent as my hair is blonde...which means you know precisely what I'm talking about. And yet there is not a single blush about your cheek. _You_ who blush if a gentleman brushes your hand! Blush at a single entendre, never mind a double one!" She sat down on a chair beside her. "I know women, and I know you. You're not yourself at all!"

Helen's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish as she tried to formulate an answer that might possibly, she hoped, fool Margaret, even as her cheeks went from rose to scarlet. "I assure you," she tried, "I am most _certainly_ myself." She groaned inwardly, remembering yet again how utterly useless she was in fabricating anything to fool her oldest friend. The knock on the door that came as she sat there, Margaret's response about to arrive, was strong, firm, and amazingly welcome to her.

"Enter!" she called quickly, her gratefulness seeping into the word.

The door was briskly opened and Holmes stepped in. "Ladies," he inclined his head. "I have been informed that we must all of us make ourselves present downstairs to allow them to begin to parade us for the new arrivals." He paused noticing the flush on Helen's cheeks, and frowned slightly. "Are you well?"

She blinked, looking a cross between guilty and a fox at the end of a hunt. "Yes!" she exclaimed, her voice settling as she repeated, "Yes. Quite well." She smiled at him as she crossed over to him.

"You look a trifle flushed," he commented as she grew closer.

"It is a little warm in here," she admitted, kissing his cheek shyly in front of Margaret. "I'm all right, I promise," she assured him.

"Yes..." Margaret picked up their fans, crossing over and handing Helen hers, an enigmatic expression on her face. "She is _perfectly herself_, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes's gaze moved from one woman to the other, the strong sense of subtext apparent to him, before he discarded it as women's prattle and moved on. "Very well...then if you are ready, I shall escort you both downstairs." He stepped back to allow them exit ahead of them.

Taking her fan from Margaret, Helen nodded and both women left the room in a rustle of silk.

Waiting for him to close the door behind them, Margaret snapped her fan open and regarded Helen, who was studiously avoiding her gaze. Watching, she raised an eyebrow as Holmes offered Helen his arm and remarked quietly to her, "A most becoming gown, that colour has always been most flattering on you."

Helen's cheeks flushed with pleasure, her eyes finding his and holding them, happily lost in their hazel depths. "Thank you," she replied, her voice equally soft. "You too look most handsome this evening." Her gaze drifted lower to take more of him in, but upon realizing what she was doing, she quickly raised them with a slight flush of embarrassment.

Holmes arched an eyebrow at her reaction before recalling Margaret, who was watching them with what could only be called a hawk-eyed gaze before she returned his offered smile. "Perhaps you will do me the honour, Lady Margaret?" He offered her his other arm.

"No, Mr. Holmes." She declined his offer lightly. "I believe some of the guests are already arriving, and I think it best if you walk with Helen alone. I shall walk ahead. Call it preparation for the wedding." She moved past Helen with a smile, her voice full of meaning though she never looked at her at all. "Something very much in vogue these days, I believe."

Helen watched her go, Margaret's meaning provoking a twinge of discomfort, and yet her words could have meant anything, including the processional of the wedding ceremony. But her instincts told her the comment was certainly geared for what would come after the ceremony...and that only made her cheeks flush again.

"Are you prepared for your descent into the lion's den?" Holmes voice drew her back from her thoughts.

"As much as one could be, but at least I shall not be confronting the arena alone," she replied, smiling up at him and squeezing his arm.

"No," he agreed. "There is great comfort to be had in finding another alongside you." His eyes found and held hers as they had the previous night, a meaning to his words as great as Margaret's but this time not remotely ambiguous on her.

She paused their steps long enough to reach up and touch his cheek, her smile soft and warm, a glint in her eyes, a flush of heat suffusing her at the memory of the previous night. Heat that was momentarily reflected in his gaze before, with a slight arch of an eyebrow and curve of a lip, he led her after Margaret. The new swell of the music from the ballroom drifted up to greet them as their feet stepped in tandem to the crest of the stairs and down to join the newly arriving guests.

* * *

A short while later the great house was alive with music and laughter. Despite the tight demeanour of one of the affianced, good feeling and humour abounded. However, considering a great deal of the humour among the guests was derived from the 'demise' of the status of the most dedicated bachelor in the Empire, it was hardly surprising that Holmes's smile was as stiff as the rest of his posture. 

The Duchess, after greeting their guests alongside of them, presided as a queen over her specially chosen court -- a court made up of a select number of family, friends, and notable personages, the latter of whom had become acquainted with Holmes via their troubles or as advocates for others who had them and had become trusted contacts and avenues of aid for future cases. Here and there famous faces were sprinkled -- Sir Arthur Sullivan sans his partner Mr. Gilbert, the noted actress Miss Lily Langtry, the up and coming playwright Mr. Wilde and his wife Constance, and several prominent politicians, as well as Sir Henry Ponsonby, there on behalf of Her Majesty.

Mycroft had sent his apologies in the form of a note complaining to his younger brother about the quite ridiculous idea of expecting him to travel to Exeter of all places, the tone equating Exeter with some place as far afield as Hyderabad. There was, however, a plethora of Helen's family to compensate, some neither she nor her mother were all that keen on. However, propriety dictated they should at least be invited, and, of course, once they had seen the coat of arms of the Duchess and the location of the party, they had quickly acquiesced to the silence asked of them, and made a beeline for Northernhay, their aristocratic noses twitching.

Several of them were already luxuriating in the company of a smattering of high profile peers, including Viscount Lynley, the Duchess's nephew and father of the late George Lynley, whose death Holmes had investigated. The Viscount looked well recovered from the blow, though his round frame had become somewhat leaner and, rather than the ebullient cock o' the walk manner he had previously exhibited, he was content to remain by the side of his surviving son and heir Philip, who was attending with his shy but radiantly happy new wife Claire.

Despite the early hubbub and the exceptionally loud way Lynch the butler insisted on marshalling his troops, everything was splendidly prepared and running smoothly. The elderly retainer kept as iron a hand on the reins of the event as ever he must have done on any horse he ever rode. Despite his occasionally alarming manner, the butler had become something of a celebrity amongst the gathered engagement party that morning as they had waited for the evening's arrival. Some of the vehemence of his words throughout the day in getting brasses and silverware polished, linen laid, every surface shining had carried out even to those taking a morning constitutional, until finally the outbursts had begun to cause mirth amongst Helen and the others.

Less mirthful to her, however, was how Prince had decided to adopt her, the terrier trailing around after her with an adoring expression on his face. Quite why he had taken such a shine to her, she was at a loss to understand, but if the Duchess was indisposed it was Helen's lap he turned to and he simply refused to be put off. That is until Lynch finally rescued her in the late afternoon as the party drew closer, taking the dog to his owner's room. A relieved Helen thanked him effusively, dreading to think what the party would have been like -- never mind her gown -- had the Duchess insisted on keeping her beloved pet with her. The evening would be quite nerve wracking enough, especially being aware as she was of Holmes's viewpoint on the whole matter.

Still it was going rather well, she thought. Certainly the introductions had been lengthy and almost breathtaking in the calibre of people she had come face to face with, but she had got through it admirably well. Admirably, because she had seen the approving look on the Duchess's face as they had finished and retired to the ballroom with their guests. That look had visibly lifted her confidence to the point where she almost floated into the room. Something not lost on Holmes who had observed it with some amusement, which in turn lifted his mood -- at least to a point.

Standing between him and the Duchess, she glanced at her fiancé beside her as he eyed the approach of yet another gentleman she was unfamiliar with, the look on the detective's face making it extremely clear he felt the guest undoubtedly had at the ready what he thought was some witty quip about the loss of Holmes to marriage. Quite suddenly, her fiancé turned to her. "A dance?" he volunteered, a sure sign of desperation from him if ever there was one.

Helen smiled at him and took his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I would be delighted," she agreed.

"Ah, Sir Cuthbert," Holmes said on taking Helen's hand, acting for all the world as if he had not seen the man. "Your Grace," he said swiftly, "do you know Sir Cuthbert Hughes of the Home Office?"

"By reputation of course," the Duchess replied, peering at the man regally through her pince nez. In truth she had little idea of the man at all, but had been forced to call upon government officials with whom Holmes had often worked in order to fill out the detective's side of the guest list.

"Excellent..." Holmes began to draw Helen out onto the dance floor as Strauss's waltz, the _Voices of Spring_, filled the room around them. "Then you will have much to talk about." Sliding his arms around her waist, he swept his fiancée out into the heart of the dancers before either Sir Cuthbert or the Duchess could respond.

Helen tried very hard not to laugh or smile too broadly, but it was rather hard. She scarcely knew many of the people here and some not at all, but she found that she was having a rather enjoyable time nevertheless. And dancing with her fiancé was most certainly a highlight.

"You are clearly enjoying yourself," he noted in well-humoured accusation.

"A bit," she admitted. "More so at the moment."

"Come..." he murmured, amused, "I saw the look on your face when you were introduced to Sir Arthur Sullivan. Or rather when he was introduced to you."

Her cheeks flushed a little, but her eyes sparkled. "Well, it is not every day one meets such an esteemed writer of musical theatre."

"True...I suppose that meeting men of his talent could be classed as one tolerable by-product of my work," he conceded.

"And Oscar Wilde!' she enthused. "His writing is truly amazing, and he is so incredibly gifted. I cannot believe he actually consented to come."

"He is here on behalf of his mother, Lady Jane Wilde or 'Speranza' as she is known to her readers," he informed her as they moved to the waltz. "I aided her in some...awkwardness...she discovered herself to be in some years ago. She is ill and cannot attend...plus she is somewhat notorious for her views on Irish liberty and does not like to travel to England from Ireland anymore."

"Ahhh," she breathed, nodding. "Well, never mind his reasons...I'll simply be content he is here."

His eyes left her to scan the crowded room. "You have a good deal of family here."

Her brow furrowed, not wanting to have been reminded of that at the moment. "Yes," she replied with a sigh. "Many of whom I have not seen since I was a girl."

He looked back at her. "I noted your mother's reaction. She is unsettled, less than her placid self, if perfectly civil of course."

"Indeed. I know she is happy to see her sister. They have always been close and I am glad she was able to attend." Helen glanced over at her mother, who was politely socializing with a group of her cousins and Sir Henry. "But yes...I think she will most likely bid this party goodnight as soon as it is polite to do so."

"These would be the relatives that caused much of the trouble between her and your father?" he enquired, putting their faces to memory. "The ones that treated him poorly?"

She gave a quick nod. "Not all...but many. Mostly just cousins...but an uncle or two as well; though they have passed on in the last few years."

"Another reason I am often glad I am not encumbered by excessive family." He sighed, rather relieved. "Ah...yet more to add to the gathering of your clan," he noted, motioning with his chin across the room to the door where Roger and Sarah had just arrived, late, and looking around them rather nervously, having not been announced.

Helen's eyes lit up. "Ah, Sarah and Roger!" she enthused, pleased to see them, and noted so was her mother, who, along with her sister Estelle, excused herself rather rapidly to go greet them.

Holmes nodded, about to turn his head back to Helen and their dance when he noted Roger, on greeting his aunt-in-law, raising something in his hand and gesturing slightly towards the dance floor. "I believe," he said quietly to her, "that Sir Roger has a message for you. A telegram, if I am not mistaken."

Helen sighed. "Well, it can wait until after this dance," she told him with a slight huff.

A corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "If you insist..." He spun them in a wide graceful arc as her expression of faint irritation shifted into a wide, happy smile, her feet effortlessly following his lead.

But the waltz ended all too soon, the couple forced to leave the oddly public haven of the floor to retreat to the side of their hostess, whereupon they were approached by Roger and Sarah, who greeted her and then waited for her to introduce them to the Duchess.

"Your Grace, may I present my cousin, Sarah Pembridge-Howley, and her husband Sir Roger Howley. Sarah, Roger, this is Her Grace the Duchess of Monmouth," Helen introduced them dutifully, smiling at her cousin and husband.

"Your Grace," they said as one, the respectful curtsey and light bow perfectly executed. "Thank you for your kind invitation," added Roger.

"Not mine," she replied. "Your cousin's and her fiancé's. I merely have the honour to play host to this little soirée," she said of the grand affair. "Sir Roger...I believe I have seen you before. You rowed and played rugger for Cambridge, did you not? I recall you playing for the rugby team; on the flank it was, I believe…and you are a regular at the varsity matches."

Roger's big, beaming smile broke out, the sporting man preening at being recognised for his part in the games. "Yes indeed, Your Grace. I took part in the colours matches in both disciplines, and both Sarah and I attend regularly still. You have a sharp eye!"

"One of the few things left to me at my advanced age," she replied. "My family have all been Cambridge men, and I like to keep up their traditional support as my daughter is not a keen sportswoman." She turned her attention to Sarah. "I understand from your cousin that you are an accomplished pianist?"

Sarah's cheeks flushed with shy pleasure at the question. "I would not dare to say 'accomplished,' Your Grace...but I do enjoy playing, and it has indeed been commented on." She looked over at her cousin with a fond smile. "Helen is very gracious with her praise."

"Are you staying in the town?" the Duchess enquired.

"Yes," Sarah answered. "At a charming inn called The Magic Slipper."

"Then you shall return here tomorrow for brunch and play for us," the Duchess told her peremptorily, making no enquiry whatsoever as to Sarah and Roger's plans. "Then you may travel home with your relatives when they return to London." Glancing about her, she noticed Lynch. "Excuse me; I must speak with my butler. A pleasure," she said before sweeping away.

Sarah blinked in surprise, her fan fluttering as her shock gave way to extreme nervousness. "She...wishes me to...oh my!" she breathed.

Roger patted her arm, looking a little stunned at the manner of the summoning. "Not to worry, my darling. You are every bit as accomplished has she has been led to believe."

Sarah's fan fluttered even more, leading Helen to worry that perhaps her cousin may have a fainting spell right there. "Perhaps, Roger, you might get her a cool drink?" she suggested soothingly.

"Umm...yes...yes...of course..." Roger looked at his wife.

"No...no. I'm quite well, I assure you," Sarah insisted, though she looked the complete opposite.

"Permit me," Holmes interjected, his eye drifting to Roger's coat pocket momentarily before turning to Sarah. "Perhaps if I escorted you for a breath of air, it would allow Sir Roger to speak with Helen as I believe is his intent."

Roger blinked and stifled a sigh at the detective's inevitable perspicacity while Sarah found herself nodding even before his words entirely registered with her. "Yes...yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Holmes. A breath of air may just do the trick," she agreed.

"I do hope she'll be all right," Roger said as he watched them go before fishing again in the inner pocket of his dress coat. "She is such a fragile thing."

Helen gave him a reassuring smile and pat on his arm. Knowing her cousin's deep inner strength as well as she did, if she were to use one word to describe Sarah it would most certainly _not _be 'fragile.' "Do not worry too much, Roger. She'll be just fine once the shock has worn off."

"Yes..." He nodded slowly before looking back at her somewhat pensively. "I hope that I shall not have to do the same with you shortly." Drawing the yellow telegram Holmes had spied from his pocket, he held it in his hand. "I received this today within a second telegram with a request to pass it along to you."

She frowned in confusion though she took the proffered paper, not saying a word, even when she opened it. But upon reading it...and the name...her face paled with shock of her own.

_Amristar. India. 30th October, 1890. _

_Dearest Helen._

_Had word of your engagement from Roger. Do not be angry with him. He felt it fair I should hear of it from friendly sources. I barely know what to say. I hope it brings you the happiness you seek. You remain in my heart and in my thoughts. I wish you well. _

_William._

Inhaling slowly, she folded the telegram closed once more, tears pricking in her eyes. Even now...after all this time and all that had occurred, he still wished her well...and still thought well of her. Not for the first time, a profound sense of unworthiness swept through her. 'I wish you well too,' her mind whispered back to him. Looking back up at Roger, she gave him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."

"Good?" Roger quizzed as he relaxed, having fidgeted nervously through her reading of the telegram. "Oh good. I do hope you don't mind my telling him. But, despite everything, he's a decent chap, and he did deserve to hear it from someone who..." He stopped short of saying 'cares about him.' "Well, you know."

She nodded, just managing not to flinch. "Yes...he does, and I'm glad you told him. I've picked up my pen to tell him myself, but the words always sounded so..." She sighed. "Well..."

"Yes." Roger nodded. "Awkward thing, the heart."

She sighed again and put the letter in a hidden pocket of her gown. "Yes, indeed. Roger? When you write to him next, please thank him for me? Let him know I wish him well and that I...that I hope he is happy."

"Don't you think..." he started to suggest, then stopped. "Yes, yes of course."

"I wonder what's going on there?" Watson murmured to Mary where they stood by the door on their return from the refreshment table. "Helen looks a little upset, and where has Holmes gone?" He looked about, still on edge as he had been since the previous night.

"I'm not quite sure. Perhaps he is dancing with Sarah?" she asked, taking note of the missing member of the Howley pair before regarding her husband with growing concern. "John..._is_ everything all right?"

Watson scanned the ballroom floor, not seeing Holmes and looking fractionally more agitated. "I don't know," he confessed, heartily wishing now he'd never taken the accursed narcotics from Holmes's bag, having spent the day waiting for something to happen. He gazed at Helen's pensive face. "What if he's said something to her? You know how abrasive he can be. How his moods are."

Mary's hand found his own, giving it a soft squeeze. "Darling, do try and relax. I am sure everything is well and all he has done is gone outside to partake of a cigarette."

Watson nodded, but his eyes returned to Helen and the expression on her face -- saddened, perturbed perhaps. She knew of Holmes's moods certainly...but she didn't know the whole of his behaviour; that much was evident from Holmes's own reaction. Damn his folly anyway, Watson thought. If it wasn't important, then why didn't he tell her? And if it was important, then she should know! Blasted arrogance of the man, he thought, though at the same time he felt sorry for his friend. He knew why Holmes couldn't tell her...he was afraid of showing weakness of any kind. And his friend had no wish for her to know of this...had no wish to think of it as a weakness at all!

But it was, and Helen should know of it before she took that final step down to the altar with him. She deserved to be prepared at the very least. Watson looked around the room for his friend again...and then back at Helen. Holmes had said it himself...he was not his doctor, he was his friend. And as his friend only, there was no patient/doctor confidentiality. As his friend he should act...for both their sakes.

Turning to Mary, Watson gave her a small smile. "Will you excuse me for a moment, my dear? I would just like to talk to Helen while she is not surrounded."

Her expression on her patient face clearly stated that she knew he was up to something, but she nodded in consent nevertheless. Perhaps if he were to get what was bothering him out in the open, then maybe he could spend the rest of the evening in a more relaxed state. "Of course," she replied.

"I shall not be long, I assure you." He kissed her cheek lightly and crossed over to where Roger and Helen were standing. "Helen." Watson smiled broadly on arrival. "I was wondering if perhaps you might take a turn about the house with me. I saw a lovely painting that I am almost convinced is one I heard mention of before as one of your Foundation's featured artistes."

Helen's eyebrows rose a little in surprise, but she gave him a friendly smile and nodded. "Of course," she agreed, taking his proffered arm. "Thank you again, Roger," she said to the other man. "I hope you and Sarah enjoy yourselves tonight and shall see you both later."

Moving towards the door, Watson paused as they blocked the way of a young man coming inwards. "I do beg your pardon," the doctor said affably and looked up into the man's face, whereupon he paused, a puzzled expression of half recognition on his own face.

"Not at all," the young man replied in a slight French accent. "Entirely my fault." Moving to one side, he continued on past them and back into the dining room with Watson looking after him with creased brow.

And the second woman in the good doctor's life that night asked him, "Is something wrong, John?"

"No..." He turned back to her and smiled, shaking his head and glancing back one last time. "It's just I have the oddest feeling I've seen that young man before. And not that long ago. But he's French...and I don't recall meeting any..." He trailed off. "Do you know him, by any chance?"

She too glanced over at the man as he continued on his way. "No...but that is not so unexpected. I do not know half the people here."

"Ah..." he conceded with a nod. "True. He may simply be here with someone I suppose." Looking back at her, he smiled again and led her out into the hallway, which was half filled with people talking, laughing, and making their way to and from the supper room.

Once they had moved down from the crowd a bit, Watson spoke. "Helen, I have a confession to make. I asked you out here under false pretences."

Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him in confusion and then smiled. "Ah! Were you just wishing to get away from the chaos for a bit as well?"

He chuckled softly. "Finding it all a bit of a whirlwind?"

"A little," she admitted with a light laugh of her own. "Actually, I think it is harder on Sherlock. He's holding up admirably, but I think he leapt on the chance to take poor Sarah for a breath of air rather quickly."

"Ah..." Watson stopped and frowned. "So that's where he got to."

She nodded. "Yes...poor Sarah nearly had a turn when Her Grace 'requested' she play something on the piano tomorrow. She was exceptionally flattered, but is not used to Her Grace's...forthrightness." She gave him a knowing smile. "Sherlock kindly offered to take her out to the garden for some air to fortify herself...and I'm sure he has taken the opportunity to smoke while away. I believe they'll be back shortly."

"Indeed," Watson agreed, his brow still creased, second-guessing himself once more on hearing of Holmes reasonable behaviour.

Helen's brow furrowed again. Something was wrong. She could feel it. "John...what is it? Something is unsettling you...is something wrong with Sherlock? Yourself?" Her expression grew worried. "Mary?"

"No no," he said hastily, patting her hand on his arm. "Forgive me, I did not mean to worry you. There is something I would like to speak with you about, but it is more by way of an advisory than anything else."

Unexpectedly, she smiled again. "Ahhh! I was wondering if perhaps you may wish to." Her smile softened as she turned and touched his arm. "With my father gone and you having been so good to me to advise me in so many matters, I can think of no one better to continue to fulfil that role."

"Oh." He blinked at her unexpected expectation. "Oh, of course...of course..." He patted her hand again, covering quickly. "Whatever you would like to know, and whatever I can tell you, I am at your disposal."

She sighed in relief. "Thank you. I must admit there is much I wish to know. I do know a great deal of Sherlock's likes and dislikes, but that is nothing compared to learning the intricacies of one's future husband's needs when one is to live with him every day and night. I was hoping..." she paused, her cheeks flushing as she looked around quickly, "if you, perhaps, might be so good as to advise me on matters of living with Sherlock. What hours does he keep? What does he like for breakfast? I do not wish to be underfoot nor disrupt his working systems, but could use perhaps a little insight so I know and can remove myself."

"Ah..." Watson nodded, drawing her a little further aside to a small bench just large enough for the two of them. His mind was working overtime. This was sudden, but at least it afforded him an organic way of introducing the topic without frightening her. The last thing he wished to do was disrupt the wedding in any way. "Yes well...Holmes's hours are rather difficult to pin down."

"He has told me a little about how his work runs, that he can be gone hours or days at a time and usually at an instant's notice. I suppose that should bother me, but it doesn't. I know he is happiest when he is working." She smiled fondly. "But when he is not...does he rise early or late? Does he take tea first or after breakfast?" She frowned. "Should I wake him at a specific time...or does he prefer to lie in?"

"First," the doctor said carefully. "Though you have had some recent experience of his manner in these matters, I must again warn you that he has been known to disappear upon a case for days on end without informing anyone of his going or of his whereabouts. I have spoken to him about this, reminded him that you shall not be housekeeper or a mere friend and that he owes you a duty as husband to your peace of mind. I believe…well…" He paused, giving her a rather wan smile. "_Hope_…I have made an impression. But all the same, be prepared for some cursory messages and rapid departures."

She nodded seriously.

"During a case, he may never sleep at all...or you will find him sprawled upon the couch dead to the world." He smiled a little. "Or slumped at his desk. In the immediacy after a case, he may sleep for what seems like days as he revitalises himself. I have found it best to let him sleep until he rouses himself. Tea first...by all means, especially if he's been sleeping long. When he is not working...you may find he's an early riser. Restlessness sets in, and he tends to be up and about the place, trying to find things to occupy his mind. It is not unusual for him to be washed, dressed, and at his desk by six or seven in the morning."

She nodded once more, taking it all in and making mental notes. "Very well; then I shall have to take each day as it comes and make sure on the days he needs rest to ensure there is little or no noise," she said, partly to herself. "My schedule is more fixed, especially regarding making calls and where my father's business is concerned, so there should not be a worry of disturbing him." She nibbled her lip. "Though I do think I should try and be home when he is not working, if only to help occupy him. Perhaps with a chemistry lesson...I have enjoyed those in the past and he did seem keen to teach me. Or perhaps some outings to musical recitals."

"Yes..." Watson felt an opportunity open to him. "I do think that's wise. The more you can occupy him the better. It will stop him falling into bad habits that he occasionally indulges in." He waited, quietly, hoping the lure would be taken.

She gazed at him curiously. "Do you mean, for example, working on unsafe experiments?"

"That most certainly..." he agreed readily. "If you can keep him from that you shall have Mrs. Hudson's undying gratitude, I know. That and other foolish things like the tendency to forget himself and where he is, such as firing a pistol into the wall." He smiled in remembrance before adding lightly, "And another experimentation he occasionally indulges in as a form of..." He paused, seeking the words and maintaining his lightness of tone. "A form of self medication. Needless to say, as a doctor I don't approve."

She blinked slowly, her eyes widening. "Self...medication? Do you mean he...imbibes...too much? But I have seen no evidence for this at all. Are you sure?"

"No, no..." he clarified. "Holmes is no drinker, merely the odd snifter of brandy or whiskey if the mood or a meal comes his way. No. I refer to actual, medicinal compounds." He chose his words most carefully.

Her brow furrowed. "Medicinal...like...a drug." Concern washed over her face. "Is it harmful?"

"He uses it to aid him," Watson replied in the same measured tones, "as a way of helping to keep his mind open and active during slack periods. Nothing he uses cannot be purchased over the counter in some pharmacy and without prescription. Don't fear that it is anything as serious as an opiate," he reassured her. "But it does have an effect, and as it is often the case with all medicines, the more you take, the more you need to take to maintain the effect. And to be honest, I would rather he sought natural methods of occupying his mind rather than seeking medical avenues, wouldn't you agree?"

She nodded slowly. "How long has he been taking this drug? What drug is it? Are there any negative affects I should be aware of?"

"He has been taking it for some time, against my advice..." he admitted. "It is a weak solution of cocaine, and it has a mild euphoric effect which he believes helps him to counter boredom and the moods that come with it. Needless to say, any induced euphoria must end, and when it does, it can often have the effect of leaving one more adrift than before. Therefore, it makes more sense to avoid it, but Holmes _will_ experiment as you well know. Once or twice, he has been known to try morphine, but that is a rare occurrence indeed."

Her eyes widened at that. "_Morphine_?" she breathed before shaking her head, her expression grave. "I see. But as you say, cocaine is available anywhere. And if he has been taking it for this length of time..." She sighed and shook her head. "I am sure he knows what he is doing. But this does make clearer one or two queries regarding his behaviour I've had in the past." Inhaling slowly, she nodded once more. "I must trust that he understands what he is doing, for I know he would have no wish to damage the part of himself he holds most dear."

"Of course, of course," Watson hastened to agree. "But as his friends..." he smiled at her, "and his soon to be wife, we both know that upon occasion, Holmes's stubbornness can be breathtaking, and when fixed and focused upon a course, he can be hard to dislodge. Still, it behoves us to try and gently guide him in other directions, while of course..." his smile grew conspiratorial, "never allowing him to think it is anything but his decision."

She regarded him enigmatically for a moment, her thoughts in a flurry, torn between wishing not to go against her future husband's decision regarding this and agreeing with her friend that there must be better and less risky ways of alleviating boredom than partaking of artificial substances.

But finally, she inclined her head. "I will not go against his decision, John, should he make his preference known, but I will try to...distract...him with other avenues to explore as well."

With a smile, he nodded, not entirely happy with what he had said but hard pressed to think of what more he could do without alarming her terribly and risking his friendship with Holmes to an irreparable degree. "That sounds like a wise course of action," he said in hope, taking her hand. "Now, despite the length of time it has taken us all to reach this point, I can tell you from experience the next few weeks will pass in a whirlwind, and we must take our opportunities while we may." His smile grew brighter. "So tell me...what else can I tell you?"

* * *

_  
29th November, 1890 _

Watson's words were exactly true. The next few weeks were a blur of work and preparation, and it hardly seemed credible to believe that time could pass so quickly that one could wake up one morning and find it was one's wedding day. And yet as Holmes stood there, observing himself in the mirror of his Tudor styled room at the Wayfarer Inn in St. Albans, his breakfast untouched behind him, _that_ was the truth of the matter.

The detective reflected on how quickly he had come to this place and point in time. How swift had it been, the alteration of his path from determinedly and happily single to the groom on the morning of his wedding? The fact it had taken a little over two years, of course, was irrelevant as he pondered on it all, slowly buttoning his waistcoat, the air of slight bewilderment evident on his face.

A light knock on his door was followed by it opening a little and Watson's head appearing around it. "Splendid morning!" he exclaimed as moved inside, closing the door behind him.

"Is it?" Holmes looked through the window at the bright, crisp day and back at himself in the mirror. "Yes," he agreed. "I suppose it is."

The doctor's eyes lit upon the untouched breakfast and the impending groom's rather disoriented expression, and his smile grew rather knowing. "It's perfectly normal to have a case of nerves on one's wedding day, you know, old man. Perhaps something to fortify yourself?"

"_Nerves?_" Holmes turned slowly to observe Watson as if the idea was ludicrous.

"Over _what_, pray tell?"

His friend fought to restrain his smile from growing wider. "My dear fellow, your life is about to change in the next hour. It's perfectly logical and normal if you should feel off balance." His eyes twinkled as he held up his hand in ready surrender to what he was sure Holmes would say. "Not that you are, and I'm sure you're perfectly all right. My mistake."

"Indeed I am," Holmes sniffed, not missing his friend's amusement, before adding slowly, "Though, of course, you are correct about the ramifications of this day. It has hardly escaped my notice that everything is about to change." He turned back to the mirror and resumed his work on his brocaded waistcoat. "I was merely reflecting upon the speed with which it has occurred..."

Watson nodded, his lips twitching again. "Well, compared to mine and Mary's courtship, you may rest assured that yours and Helen's proceeded at snail's pace."

"In comparison to the speed of your courtship, one may well say the same of a speeding locomotive," Holmes threw back.

Watson's eyebrow arched, but his good humour remained strong. "Quite true," he agreed with a chuckle. "Still..." His eyes turned back to Holmes's breakfast. "You should try to eat something."

"As always, you fuss like an old mother hen, Watson..." Holmes sighed and turned to look at his breakfast, his nose turning up almost as soon as his eyes caught sight of it. "No, I have no appetite for it, and no doubt there will be plenty at the luncheon afterwards. Is the carriage here?"

"Waiting out front," the doctor confirmed, sitting down in a chair and lighting a cigarette.

"The ring?" Holmes fiddled with his cravat.

"In my pocket," his friend assured him, patting the pocket in question.

"Then I believe we are prepared." The detective turned to face his more experienced friend. "Unless I am mistaken?"

"Well...there is only the part where the best man inquires of the groom if he has any last minute questions and gives him some marital advice." Watson paused. "So, dear fellow...any questions?"

"Yes," Holmes said after a moment. "How does one survive?"

The doctor's eyebrows rose. "Survive?"

"Their moods, their quirks, their irrationality, their need to change things that are perfectly functional the way they are!" Holmes sat down facing him. "The apparent reality of living with even the most seemingly sensible of women. I am not so far gone in my affections for Helen that I cannot see that at some point one or all of these shall come into play."

"Ahhh..." the other man breathed, trying desperately not to show any form of the amusement that was most certainly bubbling up inside him. And so he took a deep breath and gave his friend a sympathetic look. "Well...I suppose...you both talk about it. That is what Mary and I do. You must learn your wife's…well...to use a gaming analogy with which you will be familiar, her 'tells'…and the ways to either avoid your wife altogether or appease what may yet be on its way. Mostly...I would suggest compromise...and lots of it." He raised his finger. "But on both sides, of course."

Holmes nodded, thinking on it. "She is stubborn, heaven knows, but sensible enough I hope to have the ability to compromise...and wise enough to know when I will not."

Watson nodded as well, heartily in agreement with that. "Helen is most certainly a sensible woman and keenly perceptive." He drew on his cigarette and gave his friend a smile. "I shouldn't worry about her wishing to hamper you or interfere. But do also keep in mind the running of the home is her responsibility now, and you will have to give her a little guidance so she can run it to the satisfaction of you both."

"There is, of course, the little matter of Mrs. Hudson." Holmes reached for his own cigarettes, opening his silver case. "Two women under the same roof is never advisable. And Mrs. Hudson is no servant."

Lighting his cigarette, he took a long draw, then exhaled, a slight smile on his face. "You are right, Watson. I believe I shall stay well away from matters of domesticity. Allow them to come to their own conclusions…with a little initial guidance from myself. Tell me..." He sat back, changing the focus of the conversation in his typically rapid manner. "Have you and Mary ever quarrelled?"

Watson's mouth curled upwards a bit as he inhaled on his cigarette. "Most certainly," he replied. "But then when there are cooler heads, we talk about the matter and resolve the situation. Both of us have made mistakes, but I must admit it takes a great deal to perturb Mary. She has a rather calm and understanding soul."

Holmes harrumphed slightly at that. "As I have said previously, a rare woman indeed." The fact that he thought Helen a degree less placid than Mary did not have to be voiced. "You, of course, as master of the house exercise your final say on matters at times?"

"Of course," Watson agreed with an absolutely certain tone. "Though I could count such occasions with less than all the fingers of one hand."

"As Mary is an eminently intelligent woman," Holmes agreed. "However..." He paused and shifted uncomfortably. "There will come a time, I'm sure, when there is some disagreement or other. One that does not end to her satisfaction…" He cleared his throat, even the thought of this seemingly distasteful. "Must one deal with the tears? Personally, I feel it is best to allow such emotional displays to pass and let logic reassert itself before dealing again."

Watson drew on his cigarette as he thought how best to answer his friend, and finally just decided to be blunt. "I'm afraid where women's emotions are concerned...logic is sometimes to be of little aid," he agreed with a small smile. "And though when the displays are over, and indeed, more fruitful discourse can begin...women may need a little reassurance and understanding in the interim."

"Yes. Patience with them appears to be the key." Holmes's lips pursed slightly. "Something I shall have to cultivate more of, I feel." Dwelling on this a moment, he finally looked philosophically at Watson. "For every benefit one must pay a certain price, is that not so?"

Stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray, the doctor inclined his head. "Indeed," he concurred. "Still...do not worry too much. I am sure you and Helen will do splendidly." He smiled widely. "In fact...I am certain of it."

"Yes...I am hopeful, I must admit." The detective came in that moment as close as he had ever done to admitting a certain excitement about what was to come. "We have reached an agreement on monetary matters. She may see to her own dress allowance and sundries as much as she wishes, and, of course, deal with her family's needs. But household and other expenses are to be dealt with solely on my income...an equitable and sensible agreement, I feel."

"Quite," Watson agreed, pleased to see them already cooperating so well.

Holmes gave his friend a small smile. "Any more sage advice from the estimable doctor before I am taken to the gallows of bachelors?"

Watson snorted. "I'd hardly refer to it as a gallows, old man."

"No? Is my life as a bachelor not to end?" Holmes asked in amusement.

Shaking his head and chuckling, the doctor rose to his feet. "Think of it as the next grand adventure...a mystery beyond all mysteries. One that will take your life to fully understand but worth the investigation."

"Ah Watson...ever the romantic." Holmes's smile grew a little more as he rose to his feet. "Well, old friend, though it is early, I know...will you join me in a toast to my great fall?"

"I'd be honoured," his friend agreed with enthusiasm.

"Excellent." The detective moved to the bell pull in his room and tugged on it before returning to his seat. "A life long investigation, hmm? No doubt to be concluded with a death bed revelation." He smiled to himself before arching an eyebrow at Watson again. "Though perhaps, after Helen's reaction to my recently reported '_near death'_ experience, that isn't a subject to be raised around her any time soon."

His friend sighed and nodded, giving the detective a reproving look of his own on how he'd handled that affair with Culverton Smith. "I think you should not even mention anything involving your possible death for at least a month...to me in the very least, never mind Helen!"

"Come, Watson!" Holmes snorted at his delicacy. "You carried yourself off splendidly because of it, and was the trapping and capture of such a vile man not worth the temporary inconvenience?"

"Ask me that next time you play dead," the doctor returned with a sniff.

Holmes's laugh echoed around them. "Watson, my dear fellow, what do you take me for? A performance artist? You above all others know that I would never use the same device twice!"

"Frankly, Holmes, I think you do take pleasure in adding a great deal of the theatrical to these escapades of yours. Still…you also take pride in your novelty, and I hope for Helen's peace of mind at least that is so," the other man agreed with another mild huff.

There was a knock at the door, and going to it, the detective found the houseboy waiting. "A bottle of Cognac, if you please -- the best your employer has to offer," he ordered, sending him on his way.

Turning back to Watson and closing the door, Holmes continued, "I have already promised her if I plan to feign near death again, I shall of course inform her. But as I have no intentions of ever doing so again -- for what useful purpose would it serve? -- it is a promise entirely without meaning. But it makes her feel more at ease, I suppose."

Watson gave a faint nod of agreement, finding the topic far too morbid for such a joyous day. "Well, I'm quite certain she does. Now...do you have everything? I've already given instructions about your luggage, and it will be at the station waiting for you. Helen's will arrive while we are all at the service, so she'll only have a small bag with her for last minute needs."

"My wallet, the tickets, and travel documents are all about my person," his friend replied, glancing at his dress coat and the great coat he still had to don. "I believe I have all I require." He regarded the doctor quietly for a moment. "Thank you, Watson."

The words, though quiet, came invested with a great deal more than the gratitude of a groom to a solicitous best man, the detective's gaze level on his friend.

"You are very welcome," Watson replied, his deep respect and admiration clear in his expression, a long moment of silence passing between them before he coughed and patted Holmes on the arm. "Now...where is that brandy? We must make sure you get to the church on time!"

"No doubt the boy had to run down to the cellar for it." Holmes retrieved his dress coat and slipped it on before crossing back to the free-standing, full length mirror. "Old inns have the most interesting cellars...most of them with smugglers alcoves for hiding contraband goods. Though they are not the most comfortable places to hide one's self. _That_ I can freely attest to."

Smoothing down his coat, he perused himself in the mirror. "Ah...Watson, the boutonnière?" He held out his hand. The flower was carefully handed over to the detective, and after affixing it, he took a step back and turned to Watson. "I believe we are ready for the off. That is...once we have had our toast."

The door was knocked upon again, and with a small sound of satisfaction, Holmes opened it only to find himself facing two very large, unsmiling gentlemen outside.

"Gentlemen?" Holmes addressed them, showing no signs of any surprise. However, he received no answer. "May I help you?" he asked with a tad more edge.

"An interesting question, Monsieur Holmes," a decidedly Gallic voice said from somewhere behind the two huge men.

Stepping aside, the men revealed an elderly gentleman whose silver mane of hair tumbled from beneath his silk top hat, hair that was matched by a beard of great length, the tip of it brushing his waistcoat buttons. His advanced years were belied by the straightness of his posture and the glittering intelligent eyes that shone out at both men in the room as he removed his hat. Alongside him stood a far younger man, a man finally familiar to Watson when placed alongside his more venerable companion.

The doctor's eyes widened. "You!" he breathed, his surprise turning to extreme suspicion. "You have been following us."

Holmes looked from the two men to Watson. "Following us?" he enquired of him mildly.

"_Yes!_ I saw this man at Northernhay at your engagement party and thought him familiar! But I couldn't think where I had seen him before. With so many of your acquaintances there, it didn't strike me as odd except that for some reason I was full sure he had not been French when I had met him before. But now I remember where I saw him, and you were not French then!" he accused the man. "Not when you were at the restaurant where we had the dinner for you and Helen, Holmes. I didn't see the connection at the time or think anything of it..." he trailed off and gave Holmes an apologetic look.

"There is nothing to apologise for. I believe we are in precisely the same boat, my dear fellow." Holmes brushed it off with a small smile. "I presume, sir," he addressed the younger man, "that it was your figure I saw in the mist as we arrived at Northernhay the day before the party?"

"Indeed, Monsieur Holmes," he replied coolly. "We have been observing your actions for some time now."

"Oh, I am well aware of that now," Holmes answered, his eyes drifting back to the elderly man. "As the last time I had the pleasure of making this gentleman's acquaintance, it was a considerable time ago. February, outside the offices of _The Times_, was it not?" he queried and received a polite nod of the silvery head.

Holmes looked back at his friend. "Though then he feigned disorientation, was decidedly less erect of posture, and his accent was impeccably English…indeed his demeanour wholly convincing. My compliments, sir." He inclined his head, towards the man again. "I am not usually so wholeheartedly fooled."

"Too kind," the old man returned. "Though of course, I have a great many years experience to draw upon, and had the pleasure of spending many years in your fine country as a younger man. I took the time to perfect my accent before I returned to France. So do not berate yourself...you have no reason. You are quite the accomplished man. Far more accomplished than any other man I can recall in the occupation of thwarting nefarious acts."

He looked from one to the other of pair. "We had heard the stories, of course...though I confess I always thought them an English exaggeration. You will excuse the impertinence, but you English have a tendency to brag about your own.

"However," the elderly man looked at them both, gravely, "having carried out our own reconnaissance at the behest of our employer, it appears your ability to both prevent crime and detect the perpetrators is exactly as reported. Your threat to the underworld has not been exaggerated."

At his words the two large men stepped into the room. The old man's eyes were piercing. "And this is why, I'm afraid, I must detain you."

* * *

_**  
Authors' Notes -- Thank you again to all that have been reading and/or reviewing! It's good to hear that everyone is still so excited about this work. Well, folks...just one chapter to go! We would apologize for the cliffhanger...but you'd all know we weren't the least bit sorry so there's not point. :D We do hope to write and prepare the next chapter next week, but let's see how the holidays progress first. Heh. Though we do have some chunks done. Stay tuned to the Yahoo Group for updates! Right, I'm going to make this brief tonight, as it's late and I'm fighting a cold my darling son decided to share. So hugs to all and our thanks again for your continued support. It means a great deal to both of us. -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)**  
_


	16. A Brave New World

**Chapter Sixteen: A Brave New World**

_29th November, 1890 _

"Detain us?" Holmes repeated, showing no emotion.

"Now just a moment!" Watson exclaimed.

"I hope, my dear doctor, that it shall be only that. Though of course that is entirely up to you." The old man held up a finger, and at that action, the younger men in the party bustled in to the room. Holmes took an easy step back, making no attempt to stop them.

Calmly walking past them all, the white bearded old man seated himself in the chair Holmes had been occupying only moments before. His young compatriot took up a position beside him, clearly guarding him as the door was closed and the two friends were sealed in with their French visitors.

Watson's moustache twitched as he ground his jaw, his deep irritation plain to see. "This is hardly the time, gentlemen!" he told them forcefully. "Holmes here has a far more pressing engagement!"

"One must admire the upper middle classes of the English." Whitebeard smiled, glancing up at his young guard as he took off his gloves with easy grace. "Ever concerned with the niceties, even in the face of what appears to be considerable peril." His gloves removed, he turned his gaze back to the doctor. "I assure you, we are quite aware of that, Dr. Watson."

"I'm sure you are," Holmes spoke after a moment. "In fact, I'd venture to say it has been factored precisely into the timing of your visit."

Whitebeard smiled at him. "You really are more than I hoped, Mr. Holmes. I confess...as rude and unromantic as it may be...you are correct. Your fiancée's party is even now on its way to the church, and we hoped that the...urgency...of your engagement might hasten you to a quick decision in advance of your departure."

Holmes took the few short steps to stand before him. "A calculated gamble, sir. It _may_ also anger me and make me less inclined to give you any decision at all...let alone one that pleases you."

"Here, here!" Watson agreed.

Shifting, Holmes sat down in what had been Watson's chair. "Still, a request for a decision indicates that you...at least initially...are not here to harm us. You have a proposition?"

"I do." The old man nodded before looking to Watson. "Please, Doctor, pray be seated."

Glancing over at Holmes, the doctor made to protest, but decided against it and stiffly took a seat, his back iron rigid.

"Before we begin," Holmes said conversationally, "might I compliment you, sir, on your network of informants and infiltrators. Only once or twice this past while have I felt in any way observed or tracked, and even then it was only fleetingly and no more than usual in my work. You must have made good use of the denizens of the city in order to keep track of us. Though I dare say in your profession that is standard."

"In my profession, Mr. Holmes?" Whitebeard enquired, still smiling enigmatically. "And what might that be?"

The detective sat back in his chair. "I feared at first that you were little more than the employees of some disgruntled past quarry of mine, seeking to take a timely revenge. But I should have been less hasty. While you yourself and the young gentleman are most elegantly dressed, your men here," he glanced towards the two on the door, "are wearing standard issue heavy soled French military shoes. Their coats, though of different colours and middling material, are of surprisingly good cut and undoubtedly from Ibanez & De Clerc, who are noted for their use in French civil service circles. I would say you are all employees of the Government of the French Republic...and from the mix of military and civilian attire on your men and your particular intelligence gathering expertise, I would say the Ministry of the Interior? From your deftness, a very specialised section within it. And from the ring upon _your_ finger, sir..." he addressed the old man, "I would say you are its highly decorated head." Holmes inclined his head. "I am honoured you should be personally scrutinising me. But also somewhat puzzled."

"Puzzled?" Whitebeard repeated, once more giving nothing away.

"A venerable and decorated member of the Légion d'honneur sent to scrutinise me? Why? I have worked for the French government before. I have also been decorated by them, if not as prestigiously as you. They know my work; why the subterfuge? Am I suspected of something?" Holmes enquired, frowning slightly.

Whitebeard smiled again. "Merely an excess of reputation with little hard fact to back it up."

Holmes bristled, his pride not taking kindly to that at all. "I trust..." he said in far colder tones, "that this last while, under your observation, has put pay to that notion?"

"Oh quite..." the elderly agreed amiably, not reacting to the detective's annoyance. "In fact, I have been most impressed with both you and the good doctor. Though, with his pardon, we have decided we only require _your_ services."

Watson frowned, still highly suspicious of the French men, that little announcement not allaying his qualms one bit. "And what, pray tell, do you need Holmes's services for?"

"Alas, dear Doctor, I am not at the moment at liberty to divulge the exact circumstances of the case Mr. Holmes shall...hopefully...be undertaking on our part. That...shall be revealed to him, when he and his charming new wife..." he took out his watch from his waistcoat pocket to glance at it, emphasising the time, "visit our capital upon their honeymoon."

"So you know our destination too..." Holmes shook his head with a wry smile. "Naturally you do. Just as you appear to have known everything else. I am surprised, however, at the ease with which you infiltrated the Duchess's home. She spent much time on security, and invitations were closely numbered and secretly dispersed. Her servants have been with her years and are completely loyal." Enlightenment flashed upon his features. "Ahhh..." he breathed, relaxing, "how foolish of me. With fonts of information on individuals to your credit and the deep pockets you undoubtedly have, it should have been no trouble at all to source a weak point within her cadre…a trusted point of influence and information with far shallower pockets than yours. I trust the high living but impoverished Mr. Scott was well paid for allowing your man here access to the grounds and the party...as well as all our wedding and travel arrangements?"

"_Mr. Scott?_ The Duchess's own great-nephew?" Watson exclaimed, his eyes wide with surprise and shock at the revelation, before his jaw tightened once again as the desire to give the young nobleman a good thrashing swept through him.

A low chuckle came from the old man. "Mr. Holmes, I never reveal my sources as a matter of professional courtesy."

Holmes smiled nonetheless, confirmation enough in his own mind. "I confess, sir, that I should be furious at this point, and indeed a part of me is irked in the extreme...but I believe that after all this time watching me you have stumbled across the point of my greatest weakness."

"Curiosity and novelty?" Whitebeard ventured lightly.

Holmes steepled his fingers in response. "Still...you cannot expect me to either delay my wedding or interrupt my time in Paris with my bride to undertake something I have not the slightest understanding of. And you have still not answered my question as to why any of this was necessary."

Whitebeard grew more serious. "Because, Mr. Holmes, this is no ordinary matter. The work you have done for the French government has been sensitive, yes, but only sensitive to individual members of the government or to key areas of industry dealing with mere scandal or crime. This is altogether something more serious. This is something I would normally never dream of handing over to any non-Frenchman...as it has to do with the national security of France itself.

"Needless to say, given the history of our two countries, an Englishman would be my last choice. But despite all my reservations, your name kept cropping up again and again...until I had to investigate your abilities for myself...and assess your trustworthiness," his violet eyes regarded the detective unblinkingly, "as well as your ability to put aside your nationality, your loyalty to your home country, in order to keep our secrets in this one matter."

Holmes's eyes widened slightly, and at once, past the surprise, Watson could see the intrigue flare in them. However, Watson's brow furrowed at the idea. He'd known Holmes to aid other governments and even monarchs of other lands...but to put aside his loyalty to the Empire?

"We will need an undertaking from you, Mr. Holmes, before we begin, that what you learn will never be revealed to any source within the British Government..." Whitebeard arched an eyebrow, "and I include your estimable brother in that. Any information you glean while working with us shall not be imparted to any source that might use it against the French nation in anyway whatsoever...by blackmail or application."

Holmes's fingers entwined slowly before he answered. "I would be lying if I did not say my interest in the matter is piqued." He rose and crossed to the fire, looking into the empty grating before turning back. "And you require this promise now?"

"I do," Whitebeard confirmed.

"In writing?"

"No." The old man stood to face him. "I believe your word will do admirably."

The detective did not hide his satisfaction at that, though his hands moved to clasp behind his back as he paced in further thought around the room.

"Holmes," Watson said both warily and in low warning, looking at his pocketwatch.

His friend held up his hand to the doctor, silencing him, aware of the time, but concerned with what was occurring here and now. Swinging around swiftly, he faced the visitors once more, firing his next question directly at the elderly man. "What is involved will put the British Empire at no threat?"

"It is of no threat to them whatsoever. Your government's not knowing will do no damage, I assure you..." Whitebeard replied. "Though should our nation come to grief, who knows the repercussions for Europe and the British? We have had almost a hundred years of peace between the great nations. But an upheaval in France...!" He shrugged, leaving the point hanging in typical Gallic fashion.

Watson watched his friend closely, and though his irritation was lessening with his own growing curiosity, the urgency of where they both needed to be was not making him partial to this conversation.

Holmes raised his chin, eyeing the man. "Very well..." He moved to pick up his top hat before returning to stand before Whitebeard, extending his hand. "You have my interest and your promise."

Pleased, Whitebeard shook his hand on the bargain.

"Besides..." Holmes said as they did so, "how could I refrain from working with the near mythical Comté de Crenne? Spymaster extraordinare? I must admit, sir, I thought you long dead."

The Comté blinked in surprise as Holmes left him in mid handshake.

"Come, Watson! I believe we have a wedding to attend!" he called as he headed for the door.

The doctor stood rapidly and grabbed his own hat as he rushed to follow his friend.

But the two burly men at the door stood firm, looking to the Comté who was still rather surprised if gradually growing more pleased at Holmes's unveiling of his identity. Few had ever heard of him, and most of those assumed he was just a fabrication or, as Holmes had pointed out, long dead. He gestured slightly to them and they moved aside. "Congratulations on your wedding, Mr. Holmes, and good fortune on your marriage." He bowed to them. "I look forward to meeting you again in Paris. One of my men will be in contact."

With a tip of his hat to the man, Holmes exited the room and bolted down the stairs, passing the bewildered boy coming carefully up with the cognac. "How are we for time, Watson?" Holmes called back.

"We'll have to run! No time for a sedate carriage ride!" the doctor replied. "She should be arriving there at any moment!"

"Nonsense!" Holmes smiled as he skidded to a halt outside the inn, seeming to enjoy the sudden rush. "We shall take the carriage, and I shall drive!"

Watson paused to catch a breath. "Holmes...we don't have time..."

His friend ignored him, clambering up on the driver's seat. "Off you get!" he told the startled driver of the rig, grabbing the reins from him and gently but firmly guiding him down. "A change of plans! You can collect the carriage at the rear of the church!" He looked back at the doctor and held out his hand. "Well come on, man!"

Watson opened his mouth but promptly closed it. Snorting back a laugh, he grabbed the detective's hand and let him help hoist him up next to him. "Let's go then!" the doctor exclaimed.

Holmes smiled broadly at his friend as he grasped the reins more firmly. "Hold on!" he warned, the enthusiasm spilling into his voice, as he brought the leather down on the backs of the horses and pulling the whip out of the holder, cracked it over their heads, setting them off at a rapid pace.

Careening down the thankfully empty street, they turned the corner into rather more traffic at an alarmingly wide curve, barely getting back onto the right side of the street to avoid a collision with an oncoming brewer's cart. The calls of the driver echoing back at them, they charged down the narrowish streets of St. Albans, holding onto their hats, the spire of the church the focus of their attention, the distance covered in breathtaking and breakneck speed.

"Are you sure about taking this job on, Holmes?" Watson called over the thunder of the hooves and wheels, holding on for dear life. "I mean not being able to tell _anyone_?"

"If it conspires to be anything I feel shall hurt the interests of this country you need have no fear that I shall be part of it, Watson!" Holmes returned loudly.

The doctor nodded, sure of his friend in that regard. "What ever will Helen think? On her honeymoon yet!"

Holmes smiled a little before answering him over the din, "She will soon be the wife of the world's foremost consulting detective. Think of it as the first great test of her readiness for the role!"

Watson shook his head, a great empathy for Helen's future in that regard more than present from his own experiences. "And what are we to do about Cameron Scott?"

"_Do?_" Holmes whipped the reins again, calling back. "Not a thing! We have no hard proof of his accepting money, nor has any exact harm been done! He was under no obligation to us except that of his honour. Of which we now know he has little. I would rather not invite a dispute over the matter today of all days. I fancy neither the Duchess nor Helen would thank us for it!"

"Good point!" Watson agreed, tilting into another sharp turn, his hands clutching the rail of the seat beside him.

The horses skidded to a halt just out of sight of the front of the church, the two men having to dig their feet into the brake board to stop from being pitched off. Wrapping the reins around the driver's post, Holmes jumped down. "Hop to it, Watson! They've arrived!" He pointed at the bridal carriage just pulling up.

"Imagine that!" his friend replied with a look, having only mentioned the possibility of that occurrence several times already. Shaking his head, he gave Holmes a wide smile and clap on the arm and handed him the ring. "Good luck, old man."

Returning his smile and with a similar clap on the back, Holmes nodded, sliding the band into his waistcoat pocket. "I shall see you inside."

Watson gave a quick nod before jogging off towards the front.

Straightening his waistcoat, Holmes took a brief second glance towards the arriving carriage before looking to the path to the vestry across the way from him. Standing unmoving for a long moment, he finally nodded quietly and tucked his top hat under his arm before walking unhurriedly across the road to enter the church grounds through the small rear gate.

* * *

Helen inhaled slowly as the carriage drew to a halt, trying to still the nerves in her stomach that had made her already make two discreet trips to the WC since arising that morning. 

Fidgeting with her gown, she watched as her brothers leapt from the carriage, Andrew getting dirt on his patent leather shoes and mussing the shine. But any words of reprove stilled on her lips as they both held out their hands gallantly to assist the ladies from the carriage, trying to keep the grins from their faces and behave like little gentlemen.

Margaret's smile, though, was broad as she took Matthew's hand and let him help her down. "Why thank you, my good sir," she told him, inclining her head as Andrew helped Emily from the carriage, his cheeks flushing a little at the pretty girl's touch.

"Do you think it's going to rain, Grandma Alice?" Matthew enquired, looking up at the sky as he helped the older woman down.

"Not at all, Matthew," Margaret replied hastily in Alice's stead, seeing the alarmed expression begin to form on her friend's face. "We are in for a perfectly dry and wonderful day, I am sure," she said emphatically.

Helen took another long slow breath as she shifted to take Andrew's hand, only to notice someone was missing. "Where's John?" she asked, a hint of worry in her voice, her stomach flip-flopping again.

"Here!" came the rather breathless response as the man in question walked briskly the last few steps, having slowed down from his jog. "I just went to take a cigarette away from the church..." he dissembled, glad his rather red face hid the flush of a lie, "and wandered a little further than I planned. Apologies. Helen, you look marvellous!" he enthused, changing the subject rapidly and in the sincerest way possible, taking her in with admiration.

Helen's cheeks flushed as she gave him a pleased and nervous smile. "Thank you," she replied gratefully as Andrew moved aside to let Watson help her down.

"Might I take a liberty as the best man and request the bride's first kiss of the day?" he enquired with smiling eyes once she had descended, still holding her gloved hands in his.

"Of course," she agreed, her eyes shining with happiness as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Thank you for all you have done," she told him gratefully after pulling back, squeezing his hands, "and all you have yet to do."

Inhaling again, Helen was thankful that Margaret took that moment to hand her the best man's boutonnière. "Now...before I start making a tearful spectacle of myself, which really won't do at all, let us see if I can pin this on straight." She flashed the doctor a smile as she set about carefully pinning the favour on his lapel.

Watson smiled down at the special bridal favour, traditional for the best man. "I think that looks perfectly perpendicular..." he assured her before his look turned gentle. "Are you ready?"

She smiled up at him, nervous and jubilant all at once. "I believe so."

He nodded encouragingly at her as he smiled, immensely happy for them both. "He is waiting for you," he told her quietly. "I think a great deal longer than he knows." He took a step away from her and shared his smile among them all. "I shall inform them of your arrival." Turning, he headed into the church.

The interior of St. Albans Cathedral from mid main aisle to altar was festooned with white. Ribbons and lace hung from each pew, and massive bouquets of white roses and carnations decorated either side of the main altar, a fine spectacle for the relatively tiny and highly private congregation almost lost therein. No marriage had been advertised either in the banns or in the newsletter, so only a few passers by in the town noticed anything out of the ordinary, the privacy fully maintained elsewhere in the nation in accordance with Holmes's agreement with the press.

The groom himself, dressed in his dark grey morning coat, brocaded vest of black, and dark grey trousers, with folded pearl cravat, tightened his matching pearl coloured gloves, aligning their black embroidery with no trace of nerves as he emerged from the vestry with the vicar to stand at the altar. Watson, arriving from the main door, gave him a wide-eyed look of relief, barely able to believe still that the entire affair had not been completely disrupted. Taking his place beside the groom, he adjusted the favour of white ribbon, flowers, lace, and silver leaves on his shoulder that Helen had pinned there just moments before.

The vicar greeted him with a polite nod, which was returned by both men, and then acknowledged the small congregation of family and friends with similar silent greeting. A younger man, he had been surprised to be appointed to the ministry for the wedding by the bishop, whom he would have expected to take the task with so significant a number of notables in the invitees. But then he had been informed of the discretion required, the bishop making himself notably and publicly absent elsewhere that day and leaving both the wedding and the task of dealing with the Duchess's 'advice' to him.

Even with the small size of the congregation, it was obvious to see that the bride's side was significantly more populated then the groom's. In fact on the groom's side sat the sum total of Mary Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, who had declined the honour of a groomsman's position in favour of a more comfortable sojourn on a pew, and behind them sat Inspector and Mrs. Lestrade, there at Helen's express invitation. While she did not care for the man, Helen knew he was not totally without esteem in her fiancé's eyes. On the bride's side sat her mother, her mother's sister Helen's Aunt Estelle, Sir Nicholas, the Grufstreds, Sarah and Roger, Benjamin and Elizabeth Day, whose daughter Emily was acting as flower girl for Helen, and in elegant pomp and presiding over all, her mere presence flustering the vicar, sat the Duchess of Monmouth, accompanied by her nephew.

The vicar, glancing nervously at her over his missal, assessed the situation and on seeing everyone was ready, and having received the indication from the best man that the bride was here, raised his chin towards the church's standing usher, who moved towards the entrance to prompt the arrival of the bridal party. On his return, the vicar signalled the organist above in the gallery, and the soft strains of Bach filled the high vaulted ceilings to accompany the bride on her walk up the aisle.

As the music played, Emily walked slowly down the aisle, her young face a picture of concentration as she scattered the rose petals over the walkway. She was followed by the eye-catching gracefulness of Lady Margaret, who on any other day might have been the focus of all admiring looks. But this was another's day, and as the music swelled further, Helen appeared, flanked on either side by twin red-heads in matching morning suits.

Her gown of lace and silk in a soft ivory tone and fashionable long puffed sleeves adorned her as if it were a second skin, hiding and accentuating perfectly, and was complimented by satin slippers that had just the tiniest of heels. Her long, lace veil covered her face and came to a rest where her short train did...about a meter behind her. Her hands, which were wrapped around her brothers' arms, were clad in ivory gloves, ensuring that no sign of skin would be visible on this day.

Standing fore square onto the altar, Holmes and his best man kept their eyes forward, as was the custom, while those behind them turned to watch the bride's approach admiringly.

The party moved slowly but surely to the altar, the delay due to Matthew who insisted on counting under his breath the appropriate time lag between steps, and an awkwardly sedate Andrew doing all in his power to not stand on his sister's dress. When they finally arrived, it was all the boys could do not to sigh in relief.

Holmes, however, remained still and stoic, though the music and her approach seemed endless, until finally out of the corner of his eye he could see a flash of ivory just to the rear of his peripheral vision as the boys stopped just behind him.

Opening his missal, the vicar looked around at the small if prestigious group and then to the words in his hands. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the presence of this company, to unite Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Miss Helen Thurlow in holy matrimony. Marriage was ordained by God in Eden and confirmed in Cana of Galilee by the presence of the Lord Himself and is declared by the inspired Apostle Paul to be honourable among all men. It is, therefore, not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, soberly and in the fear of God."

He looked towards Helen and her entourage. "Who gives this woman to be married to this man?"

"We do!" chorused the boys.

"And her mama!" added Andrew.

The vicar raised a rather severe eyebrow at that last bit, levelling a look at the boy, who blushed and looked down with embarrassment. Clearing his throat, the vicar ushered them forward with their sister, as Matthew leaned around her to frown at his brother and huff at the loss of their perfect performance.

Taking her forward that final step, the boys looked up at Holmes, who finally turned his head to his bride and held out his gloved hand into which her brothers, both together, slipped hers, officially handing her over to him. Closing his hand around hers and drawing her arm around his, he gazed down at her through the veil, the beginnings of a smile on his face and only turning his eyes away when the vicar spoke again.

"Marriage is a joyous occasion. It is connected in our thoughts with the magic charm of home and with all that is pleasant and attractive as being one of the most important events of our lives. It is sacredness and unity. It is like the mystical relation between Christ and His Church and is therefore the most significant and binding covenant known in human relations." He looked at the two in front of him, his eyes falling on Holmes.

"It is your duty, Sherlock, to be to Helen a considerate, tender, faithful, loving husband -- to support, guide, and cherish her in prosperity and trouble, to thoughtfully and carefully enlarge the place she holds in your life, to constantly show to her the tokens of your affection, to shelter her from danger, and to cherish for her a manly and unalterable affection. It being the command of God's Word that husbands love their wives, even as Christ loved the Church and gave His own life for her."

The vicar's eyes turned to Helen.

"It is your duty, Helen, to be to Sherlock a considerate, tender, faithful, loving wife -- to counsel, comfort, and cherish him in prosperity and trouble, to give to him the unfailing evidences of your affection, to study, as time passes, to make the place he holds in your heart, broader, and deeper, to reverence and obey him, and to put on the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is, in God's sight, an ornament of great price -- His Word commanding that wives be subject unto their own husbands even as the church is subject unto Christ -- and forsaking all others, to cling to him with a love which fails not as long as you both shall live."

Looking from one to the other, he said solemnly, "Let me charge you both to remember, that your future happiness is to be found in mutual consideration, patience, kindness, confidence, and affection. It is the duty of each to find the greatest joy in the company of the other and to remember that in interest as in affection you are to be henceforth one and undivided."

His gaze rose once more to take in the congregation. "I ask you now...if there is any lawful or moral impediment to the joining of this man to this woman, speak of it now...or forever hold your peace."

The silence was profound.

With a nod, the vicar turned back to the couple. "If you are ready to assume the obligations and duties before God as I have defined them, you will unite your hands and pledge your love and your lives to each other." Holmes moved Helen's hand from his arm and took it once more in his as the vicar asked, "Do you, Sherlock Holmes, standing in the presence of God and these witnesses, solemnly pledge your faith to Helen Thurlow? Do you promise to live with her according to God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Do you promise to love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto her, and through God's grace to promise to be to her a faithful and devoted husband as long as you both shall live?"

Holmes turned his hazel eyes to her for a momentary pause before nodding slowly, his words clear and deliberate. "I do."

Those among the congregation who had never thought to see this moment glanced at each other with small smiles as one of the most confirmed bachelors in existence unreservedly gave up his freedom.

"And do you, Helen Thurlow, standing in the presence of God and these witnesses, solemnly pledge your faith to Sherlock Holmes? Do you promise to live with him according to God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honour, and obey him, subjecting yourself to his counsel in all things while aiding him always, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep yourself only unto him, and through God's grace to promise to be to him a faithful, gentle, mild, and loving wife as long as you both shall live?"

Helen's eyes had not left his since he had spoken, and with a smile, her eyes shining with tears, she replied with a clear voice, "I do."

From the Book of Prayer, the vicar picked up the ring given to him earlier in the vestry by the groom. It was a plain gold band, but on the interior engraved in beautifully intertwining calligraphy were the initials of the couple and the date of their wedding. Holding it up, he showed the congregation.

"The wedding ring is the outward and the visible sign of an inward and spiritual bond which unites two hearts in endless love. The circle, the emblem of eternity; the gold, the type of what is least tarnished and most enduring -- it is to show how lasting and imperishable is the faith now pledged. Let the ring, a fit token of that which is unending, continue to be to you both a symbol of the value, the purity, and the constancy of true wedded love, and the seal of the vows in which you have both pledged your most solemn and sacred honour."

In response to the vicar's indication, the groom turned to his bride and carefully opened the buttons on her glove, drawing it off her hand before turning back to the vicar, who handed him back the ring.

"Helen," said the vicar, "do you receive this ring in pledge of the same on your part?"

"I do," she answered, blinking back tears of joy and trying her best not to smile like a fool.

On her words, Holmes slipped the gold band onto her finger and wrapped her hand around his once more, drawing her close as they once more turned back to the vicar, his free hand covering her ring-bedecked one on his arm, stroking it imperceptibly.

Nodding in approval, the vicar turned his attention to the assembly once more. "By the authority committed unto me as a Minister of the Gospel of the Church of Christ, I declare that Sherlock and Helen are now man and wife together, according to the ordinance of God and the law of the Empire." He raised his hand and blessed them. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.

"Dear ones, I strongly charge you both as man and wife, to preserve sacredly the privacies of your own home, your marriage state, and your heart. Remember our Lord's urgent counsel: 'What God hath joined together let not man put asunder.' Therefore, let no one ever presume to come between you, or to share the joys or the sorrows that belong to you two alone," he said to them both before smiling. "Go in peace."

The organist took up the wedding march as the couple turned, Holmes taking her arm once more, and they walked slowly down the aisle together towards the door, eyes never wavering to either side.

Once they arrived outside the church, Helen glanced up at her now husband and flashed him a smile. "That went well," she commented quietly.

Turning to her, he released her arm and carefully drew back her veil. "Yes," he agreed, looking down warmly on the face of his bride for the few fleeting moments they would be alone before everyone joined them. "Very well indeed."

Her smile widened as her eyes shone brightly, her face a picture of love.

His hand rose to touch her face, only for him to be disturbed by the arrival of her mother and brothers at the church door behind them, and straightening, he turned to face them as they, and then Watson and Mary, Mycroft, and the others appeared shortly after them.

"Mrs. Thurlow," Holmes inclined his head. "Boys."

Alice Thurlow smiled warmly at her new son-in-law, her amber eyes twinkling and yet still retaining their dreamy far away look. "Sherlock," she returned. "Welcome to the family."

"Thank you," he replied politely, "and you and the boys must of course consider yourselves part of mine." He glanced at his brother. "With my own brother's permission, naturally."

Mycroft gave him a sharp look before smiling courteously at Alice. "Indeed, madam…indeed."

"You are most gracious, Mr. Holmes," she returned with a nod and glanced down at Matthew and Andrew, who were busy peering at the line of guests forming and sneaking grins at their sister.

Andrew caught his adoptive grandmother's look and extended a hand to his new brother in law. "Congratulations!" he enthused.

Taking the boy's hand, Holmes allowed him to shake it vigorously. "Thank you, Andrew," he replied seriously and turned to take the more solemnly held out hand of Matthew.

"Congratulations, Mr. Holmes, welcome to the family," he copied Alice studiously.

Holmes grew even more serious, giving the boy a firm, grown up, business-like handshake as he inclined his head. "Thank you, Mr. Thurlow."

Matthew nodded and looked up at his sister. "Are you happy, Helen?" he asked her forthrightly.

Helen smiled down at her little brother and nodded. "Very," she assured him as Andrew grinned at her.

"We should return to the house, I think," Watson cut in, taking up his best man duties once more as he looked at the grey late November sky. "Get you underway so you can be there to greet your guests." He gestured towards the waiting open carriage with four white horses waiting to take them and her mother and two brothers back to the Twin Birches.

Helen nodded in agreement and turned to her husband. Proffering his arm to her, he led her to and helped her into the carriage before turning back to do the same for his mother-in-law. He then allowed the boys to clamber in before he too stepped in and sat beside his new wife.

"Hold hard there!" Roger strode forward from the small gathering of guests to address Holmes in the carriage. "I believe there's one thing yet, sir!"

Holmes regarded him with wary weariness, Roger's ebullience and bonhomie amusing at times to him and tiresome at others. "Indeed so?"

"A kiss, Mr. Holmes!" Roger slapped his hand on the carriage top. "A kiss!"

Helen blinked, partly having expected someone to mention it but also knowing that her husband was a private man, especially when it came to displays of physical affection. Her cheeks flushed as she tried to quickly think of a way to dissuade her cousin's husband from furthering his objective.

"By all means, Sir Roger," Holmes agreed. "Kiss whom you will. Though I suggest caution with your wife so nearby."

Roger chuckled. "Come, come, sir…you know perfectly well what I mean."

"I do," Holmes agreed. "And I thank you for the thought."

"But it's tradition!" Roger insisted. "You must kiss the bride! It's good luck!"

Helen bit her lip and tried to catch Sarah's eye, though it seemed her dear cousin had suddenly developed a fascination with looking elsewhere.

"What it is, sir, is a pandering to a voyeuristic streak in human nature. The idea of a kiss bringing good luck is irrational nonsense with no logical basis to the reasoning for it whatsoever," the groom answered, leaving Roger rather speechless.

"So is the concept of marriage, Holmes." Nicholas strolled forward, Margaret on his arm. "Yet we most of us succumb to that too…indulge us…I doubt your bride would object," he said in his usual reserved tones, though there was a definite glint of mischief in his eyes.

Helen looked caught between a rock and a hard place -- wishing to concede to her husband's desires but not wanting to look as if she objected to being kissed by him either.

"Kissing is horrid," Andrew stated with a wrinkled nose, earning him a sharp nudge from his brother.

Roger ruffled the boy's hair thoroughly, a smile on his lips. "You shall learn better in a few years, my boy. And I should warn you, Mr. Holmes, that I shall not let the matter rest. Does it not, therefore, seem logical to pursue the path of least resistance and enjoy a placid wedding morning, rather than stand firm and be plagued in a highly annoying and irritatingly persistent fashion by me?" he enquired innocently.

"He does seem to have a point, Sherlock," Alice told him in her quiet way.

The boys gazed at their new brother-in-law and their sister keenly and expectantly, mirror images but for Andrew's now rather mussed hair.

Helen sighed and looked to her husband, ready to follow whichever lead he gave, her hand slipping into his and giving him a light squeeze of support.

Holmes regarded his mother-in-law, noting the humour there too and reflected in one form or another across the small gathering. With a sigh, he turned to his wife. "It appears we are given little choice..." he informed her, a softness in his voice belying his irritation.

"So it would seem," she agreed, the corner of her mouth tugging upwards, warmth in her eyes.

Raising his gloved hand, he took her chin gently with thumb and forefinger and drew her lips to his, mingling them softly.

"Here! Here!" Roger applauded vigorously, looking to the others to do the same, which they did to varying degrees.

Her lashes fluttered closed as she breathed him in, trying not to react too strongly, but the urge to surrender to him battled inside her nevertheless. As he drew back, Helen's cheeks flushed further at her mother's obvious amusement as Andrew pronounced clearly, though more quietly this time, "I still think kissing is horrid."

Holmes's gaze turned to his comical tormenter. "May we consider the matter concluded?"

"We may indeed!" Roger beamed and boomed, "Onwards!"

* * *

The carriage took off without further preamble, whisking them back to the Twin Birches after a fifteen-minute drive. Helen felt a twinge of sadness as she spied the house that had been her home these past two years. Today, it would cease to be...just as she ceased to be Helen Thurlow. As much as she was overjoyed to have wed the man she loved above all others, it was still quite a change all the same. 

Goodwin was waiting on the steps of the manor house as the carriage pulled up and opened the doors for them. "Welcome back," he said deferentially. "And congratulations, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you, Goodwin," Holmes replied, stepping down to help the ladies out again. "The guests will not be long behind us if my best man has anything to do with it."

The butler nodded. "Everything is prepared, sir. The dining room is laid out, and the wedding, bride, and groom's cakes are all presented. Your guests for the wedding breakfast are gathered in the withdrawing room, and the reception area is ready for you and Miss..." he paused, "I mean, Mrs. Holmes," he hastily corrected himself.

Helen gave him a reassuring look, silently agreeing that it would take a few days to get used to the name change herself, as her new husband led her inside and they moved to the specially decorated reception area.

The main dining room had been completely transformed. Shifted to one side, the long oak table was covered with a long ivory table cloth and set with the finest china for the bridal party to dine on. There was also a long table that lined one of the walls, brimming with sandwiches, meats, and all types of fare. Flowers were set everywhere, not only adding to the delicious smells, but lending a needed touch of colour on a grey late November day.

It did not take long before a second and third carriage arrived with Watson, Mary, Nicholas, and Margaret -- Mycroft, being a man of large stature, electing to arrive separately in a carriage of his own. All new vehicles joined the carriages belonging to those who had not been invited specifically to the wedding, but rather to join the festivities at the breakfast.

The bridal party assumed their positions in the reception area, forming a receiving line, before the guests entered -- a mix of treasured friend and family and those whom, much like the engagement party, good manners dictated must be there.

The first led in by Watson was, of course, the Duchess, who took Helen's hand and quietly bestowed a kiss upon her cheek, much to the bride's surprise. "May your marriage be as happy as mine, my dear girl," she said in as quiet a voice as any of them had ever heard from her.

Helen smiled softly back at the older woman. "Thank you, Your Grace. And thank you for being here today. We are both so pleased and honoured you could come."

"I should not have missed it for the world..." the Duchess assured her, her affection for Helen lingering on her face for just a moment before she straightened and became herself once more. "And mind you do not allow your husband's career to become yours! You have your own good works to do in this world," she sniffed before turning to Holmes. "Congratulations, Mr. Holmes. I trust you will always keep in mind this day and how fortuitous you are."

"Between yourself and my best man, I doubt I shall ever be allowed to forget it." Holmes smiled a little and inclined his head to her.

"You may rest assured of that!" the Duchess replied forcefully, though her eyes glinted with amusement. "And now that I have seen Helen safely wed, I suppose I shall have to turn my attention to my great nephew here." She turned slightly to the young man behind her, Cameron Scott, who was standing beside a Watson with a strongly disapproving air wafting from him.

"A true prize for some unsuspecting young lady I'm sure." Holmes's smile remained fixed as he took in the young man who had cheerfully taken his great aunt's inside information on the detective's whereabouts and converting it to coin.

"In some respects, I suppose..." she replied before tutting at an open button on the young man's waistcoat. "Though of course he is without funds."

"I am sure that is only a temporary misfortune," Helen replied with a smile. Knowing the Duchess, Helen was sure she'd find her grand-nephew a wife with quite a pretty dowry.

"Indeed..." Holmes agreed with a shared look to Watson. "I'm sure you'll find Mr. Scott's entrepreneurial spirit will find him most comfortably situated."

"Entrepreneurial spirit?" the Duchess said in surprise. "_Cameron?_"

"Without doubt, Your Grace. I think one of these days you will be surprised at just how well Mr. Cameron knows the value of things," the detective answered.

"Dearest Cousin!" came an exclamation to the left of them, a mass of burgundy silk and blond curls descending on Helen.

Helen blinked in surprise as each cheek was kissed in turn before the whirlwind's owner pulled back to reveal a handsome face, green eyes, and perfectly made up features, just this side of daring, as she took in the bride. "Oh you look absolutely wondrous! The perfect blushing bride!"

Helen bit back the urge to groan. "Thank you, Fanny," she replied kindly enough.

The Duchess eyed the newcomer with extreme disapproval, the girl having broken both etiquette and the line of guests for which Watson was acting as usher.

The woman waved her hand. "Pish posh! No thanks are necessary at all! I..." she placed a hand on her ample bosom, "speak only the God's honest truth. It is so good to see you so happily married as well! Now you too will know how wonderful it is to be married to a good, decent man, like I was to my Freddy...God rest his soul." She gave a light sniff into a magically produced silk handkerchief. Dabbing her eyes at the corners with an ease born of practice, she just as rapidly whisked the hanky away and turned to Holmes. "But this is not a day for sad thoughts...but joyous ones! May I congratulate you, my dear sir!" She held out her hand. "Welcome to the family, my dear, dear Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes regarded her in silence, taking in the dress, the makeup, the affected manner. "Thank you, Madam..." Raising his hand seemingly to take hers, he swept it instead towards the Duchess and, more pertinently, the undoubted reason the woman had surged forward. "Might I introduce you to Her Grace, the Duchess of Monmouth...and of course, to her nephew, the Right Honourable Cameron Scott..." His hand led her eyes right to the young man...before he looked to his wife to introduce Fanny in return to the admiring gaze of Mr. Scott.

Helen caught the very familiar gleam, short as it was, in her cousin's eye. It was like a cat getting exactly what she wanted. Turning, Fanny smiled widely at both of them, greeting the Duchess with a perfect curtsey before her eyes turned to Cameron. "Mr. Scott, it is my deepest pleasure to meet you," she said to him, her eyes meeting his, though from under lowered deferential lashes and before Helen could say anything at all. The bride bit back yet another sigh and gave the Duchess an extremely apologetic look.

"Fanny," Helen cut in, trying to rein in the blonde and this time did sigh just a little under her breath. "Your Grace, Mr. Scott, this is my cousin Fanny St. Michael."

"Charmed, Mrs. St Michael..." The younger man bowed a little, his eyes staying on her. "A pleasure to find that such beauty is common in your cousin's family."

"You flatter me, sir," she replied, though her tone was lower and confidential, as she made herself look more demure and appealing all at once.

Helen, however, felt a bit nauseated.

"Cameron," the Duchess said in a sharpish tone, "I require to sit, and we are holding the line."

"Oh dear!" Fanny breathed, looking away and managing to look like a lost puppy. "I'm terribly sorry! Did I barge ahead? I'm afraid my enthusiasm...oh dear..."

"It's quite all right," Helen reassured her quickly, knowing where this was going. "We don't mind, do we, Sherlock. Your salutations are deeply appreciated."

"Still! It was rather rude of me and I _must_ let you greet your other guests. I'll just find a seat quietly on my own," Fanny gushed with practiced sincerity.

"I shall not hear of it..." Cameron interjected. "Great Aunt, now that we are introduced, we cannot possibly allow such a charming member of Helen's own family to be alone on a day of celebration."

"Indeed one cannot," Holmes interjected firmly to both Helen's and the Duchess's great surprise.

Fanny blushed prettily. "Oh that is _so_ wonderfully kind of you...but I don't want to be a nuisance..."

Recovering somewhat from Holmes's interference, the Duchess gave a smile that never reached her eyes. "No, my dear, of course you don't," she said to her in what sounded the kindest of tones, while Cameron extended his other arm to the younger woman. "Never fear that you are misunderstood. I think those with any eyes in their heads and the vaguest wits about them know what you truly desire to be."

Allowing the words to float there for a moment and with a flash in her eyes, the Duchess raised her cane to point to a comfortable looking chair. "There, I believe, Cameron," she instructed.

"Of course, Great Aunt..." he said agreeably and led the two women onwards.

Helen closed her eyes for a moment as she inhaled and then tried to put aside thoughts of her dubious cousin and her antics, knowing that a great battle for the future of Cameron Scott was about to begin between the two women and wondering why it was her husband was smiling in such a smug manner before he murmured to her, "We must talk in more detail about your relatives." She flushed in mild embarrassment.

To her great relief, however, it was Estelle Pembridge-Cooper, Alice's sister and Helen's aunt, who was next in line. A widow like her sister, Aunt Estelle was, like most of her family, very genteel and refined but impoverished, and she carried with her the air of the down at heel aristocrat as she swept forward under Watson's guidance and kissed her niece's cheeks. Helen spoke quietly with her, wishing she could do more for her mother's younger sister, who had been forbidden to associate with them while her mother had been 'incapacitated' and who was too proud to accept charity from them. No doubt, it was a form of self-punishment for allowing herself to obey the dictates of family when it came to those with an illness of a mind.

She was followed in turn by Estelle and Alice's brother, a highly aristocratic man whom Holmes recognised from the engagement party, and a man who had no qualms whatsoever about benefiting from Helen's largesse.

"Mr. Maximillian Pembridge and his wife Martita." Watson introduced Helen's uncle, one of several relatives who had received a placement at Balfour & Thurlow at Alice Thurlow's behest, despite Helen's exceptional reservations. Maximillian Pembridge had been architect in chief of her late father's unhappiness and discomfort with his in-laws...an unhappiness that had driven the wedge between her parents and helped destroy their lives.

His new position showed well in his clothes, cut from the best cloth and by the best Saville Row tailors, his iron grey hair shining and immaculate, his wife Martita in the height of fashion. "Congratulations, Mr. Holmes," Maximillian addressed the groom. "You have landed a very fine catch in our Helen."

"I was not aware I had been angling for her, Mr. Pembridge," Holmes replied, sensing Helen stiffen somewhat beside him. "But that I am fortunate in my wife...I believe I agree."

"We have not had much chance to talk, but I would like to speak to you further about your family background. I understand you come from landed gentry..." Maximillian said approvingly.

Helen's jaw twitched only a hint, just enough a keen observer such as her husband would notice.

"My family on my father's side were squires, it's true," Holmes replied. "Though I come from French stock on my maternal grandmother's. But perhaps later, Mr. Pembridge? Given the queue of others, a discussion of bloodlines is perhaps best kept either for later...or the stockyard, where in truth it is the only place such a thing matters."

Pembridge flushed lightly at the insinuation and then endeavoured to cover it with a smile. "Yes...well...something to discuss, I'm sure." He looked to Helen. "You made a ravishing bride, my dear."

"Thank you, Uncle," she replied kindly enough, though she had to admit secretly that her smile was not due to his compliment.

"The role of wife suits a woman far better than that of businessman, I think we can agree on today's evidence," he said with his own small smile. "You may rest assured that when you're gone your cousins and I shall take good care of the firm."

"Of course, I am sure you all will be wonderfully attentive and helpful to Mr. Gufstred in my absence until I return in three weeks time." She smiled, though her eyes were as clear and sharp as ever. "And I shall be in communication with him as needed should any problems arise." She may be a wife now, but she was most certainly not going to shirk her responsibilities to her brothers' inheritance either.

"Of course," he said stiffly. "Precisely what I meant, naturally. You have certainly fallen upon your feet these days, Helen -- your inheritance, your status and the air of breeding with which you have enhanced it, and now a fine marriage to a man of renown and high intelligence with the ear of many imposing figures. You have done the family proud."

"Why thank you," she replied, inclining her head and feeling more like a prized horse than a bride at that moment.

"It goes to show, that no matter the unfortunate circumstances endeavouring to hold it back...breeding will always out. Welcome to the family, Mr. Holmes," Maximillian finished with a smug smile, pleased with his final reference to the 'bad' blood she had inherited from her father and moved to lead his wife away.

"Thank you again, Mr. Pembridge…" Holmes halted him with politeness. "And I trust my own breeding and background will add a great deal to the family." He smiled, his tone light but his words cutting. "In fact when you speak so, I cannot see how it will fail to."

Helen's expression darkened as she watched her uncle go, his smile a deal less uncertain, unsure if he'd been insulted or not. It was as if, like the Queen herself, she and indeed her family had, by their mere patronage of her father's successful international firm, taken a common shop and elevated it to something greater. There were several words of her own she would have liked to say to him, but knew it was useless and would only cause a fuss. Turning her head she saw her mother's eyes dip, the undoubted pain they were hiding angering her further, but so too her mother's reaction was enough to keep Helen silent, knowing her mother would not want old wounds further opened. For now, she was pleased enough by her husband's retort.

Holmes's hand brushed his bride's delicately even as he moved to greet the next guests, the far more agreeable Grufstreds, the distaff member of which was virtually quivering with excitement over the big day. And so it went for the next half hour or so, beloved and not so beloved friends and family passing by until finally Watson introduced a sheepish and rather ill at ease Inspector Lestrade and his wife.

"Well then..." The Inspector rocked on his heels a little to hide his uncertainty regarding the exact etiquette at this level of society. "Though I never thought I'd see the day, congratulations, Mr. Holmes." He extended his hand quickly.

"Thank you, Lestrade." Holmes smiled as he took it. "It was good of you to take the time to come."

"Wouldn't have missed it for all the tea in China," the other man snorted softly. "Now you'll learn how us poor mortal men get on..." He nodded. "Nothing brings a man down to earth faster than marriage." He glanced at his wife. "In a good way of course. Isn't that right, Amelia?"

The mousy haired woman with the thin face and rather dainty nose nodded with a small meek smile. "Yes, George," she agreed in a soft-spoken manner as her hands fidgeted with her gloves.

"A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Lestrade." Holmes bowed and took her hand. "I trust you are well?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Holmes," she agreed, her pale cheeks flushing and speaking in a voice so quiet those around them had to strain to hear her. "I...we...both wish you and Mrs. Holmes the very best. The very best, indeed."

His smile was genuine at her words. "On behalf of my wife and I, Mrs. Lestrade, I thank you." He straightened. "And perhaps...if you have no objections…my wife might some day call upon you? I'm sure after so many years as a wife to so prominent and renowned a police officer, your experiences of dealing with the pitfalls of such a profession might be of value to the new wife of a private detective?"

The little woman's eyes widened and her hands fiddled even more nervously at the thought of a visitor to her home from such a higher level of class and society than herself. "Oh...yes! Yes, of course!" she breathed in nervous excitement. "I should be delighted!"

Helen smiled kindly at her and took her hands, hoping to calm her, but that only seemed to make the small thin woman vibrate. "It is _I_ who shall be delighted. And you must come to tea at our home as well. You and your husband both."

Mrs. Lestrade glanced over at her husband quickly before looking back at the new bride. "Oh yes...thank you...you are far too kind..."

Lestrade cleared his throat, not entirely sure he approved of the exposure of his wife to this woman. Higher class or not, she was far too outspoken and meddlesome in his opinion. But it would be churlish to turn down the invitation, and Amelia seemed keen… "Yes," he sniffed. "Very kind, I'm sure. We'd be delighted."

"Excellent," Helen enthused. "I shall send an invitation around after we return."

Amelia Lestrade smiled back, though she quickly dipped her head and fiddled with her handbag hanging from her arm, blushing a vibrant shade of pink.

"Well then..." Lestrade looked at Holmes again, a vague smile on his lips. "Taking some time off and leaving the investigations to the qualified men to handle, eh, Mr. Holmes? However shall we manage without you? And however shall you manage without dipping your fingers into things you shouldn't?"

Holmes's expression was decidedly enigmatic as he glanced at Watson, whose eyes moved studiously elsewhere. "Oh I expect we shall both cope, Inspector...we shall both cope."

With all guests greeted properly, and all congratulations given to the groom and best wishes to the bride, both hosts and guests were then allowed to retire to the dining area, signalling the start of the brunch and short speeches.

Watson gave a short but endearing speech, eschewing too much sentimentality to spare his friend, though poking a few jibes along the way before reading out the telegrams from absent friends and well wishers...including one from the Queen herself, which surprised and impressed everyone present.

In the absence of a father of the bride, Matthew and a rather nervous and reluctant Andrew stood to say a few words. "We've only had our sister, Helen, for a little while," Matthew said soberly, speaking out well, "but she's a good sister. She's taken good care of us since our parents went to Heaven, and did what our Father wanted her to do. But she did more than just look after us...she's loved us too. And even though she's a girl and can't run very fast or climb trees...we like her lots." He glanced at his twin and nudged him. "Right?"

Andrew nodded, blushing to nearly the colour of his hair as all eyes were trained on them. "But she's wonderfully good at reading stories," he added. "Like Oliver Twist...Great Expectations...oh and Treasure Island!"

Matthew nodded. "We don't want her to get married and go away," he said rather sadly, "but we're glad if she had to get married that she's married to Mr. Holmes, because he's a hero...even the Queen thinks so. So we know he'll protect her." He paused, his eyes dipping. "But we hope he brings her to visit often...'cause..." his small voice faltered, "it won't be the same and we're...we're going to miss her lots..." He looked up at his elder sister, his bottom lip trembling slightly as his eyes filled up.

Alice rose and moved over to the boy, wrapping her arms around him and whispering soothing words in his ear as Andrew struggled with his own emotions and continued, "We love our sister...and we know she'll be very happy...and that Mr. Holmes makes her happy...and...well, that makes us happy too. Even if he doesn't play pirates." He paused and sniffed. "So, congratulations...visit lots...and if it's not too much to ask...we would like a nephew. Thank you." And with that he sat down, his freckles continuing to stand out in relief on his flushed face.

Helen stared at her brothers for a moment, deeply touched but not sure whether to blush, laugh, or burst into tears herself.

Led by the women in the party, who were either sniffing or smiling broadly, the boys were afforded a long and enthusiastic round of applause not usually reserved for children.

"Well done, boys." Watson stood and nodded at them enthusiastically. "Well done." He turned his attention towards his friend. "Holmes?" he enquired.

With a slow nod of his head, Holmes stood up and looked around him. "I'm not particularly given to making speeches," he said in a calm voice that still managed to carry to the far reaches of every corner. "Or at least not to an audience that doesn't consist of criminologists, police officers, and pathologists," he clarified somewhat self-deprecatingly, a small ripple of laughter going around. "I am especially not given to following such able speakers as those who went before me." His eyes turned to his diminutive brothers-in-law. "I'm afraid you have put me at a decided disadvantage with your eloquent speech." He inclined his head to both of them.

"But let me start by saying that you may rest assured that I shall keep your sister safe, and you shall see her often," he told them sincerely before looking down at Helen. "You may also be certain that I shall do all within my power to make her content...just as she makes me so." He drew his shoulders back, dreading the onset of public sentimentality. "I...have lived a very solitary life, and perhaps this life allows me more than most to appreciate the value of good companions as you journey through it.

"I have been fortunate to have one such good companion in my life..." He inclined his head to Watson. "And, through his good counsel and wisdom, I have been even more blessed to have found myself a second. Another of kind and caring heart and keen intellect, though far fairer countenance..." Another laugh went up as Watson nodded sheepishly. "And one who, I believe, will afford me a kind of peace that I fear I shall never be able to give her in return." He smiled at her almost sheepishly as he reached down and picked up his glass of champagne. "Nevertheless, I hope to give her all the benefits my companionship can, though they are not a quarter of what she deserves. Ladies and gentlemen, I would ask you to raise your glasses in a toast to my bride, Mrs. Helen Holmes!" he proclaimed.

The chorus of her name went up around the room, along with the glasses of champagne.

Helen stared up at her husband, her face showing her awe, touched beyond belief at his kind and eloquent public words, and found that the tears she barely restrained at her brothers' speech were now threatening to pour down her cheeks. Blinking them back, she picked up her glass and with smile, gave him a nod of gratitude.

Hiding anything else from the crowd by sipping on his champagne, Holmes sat down once more, slipped off one glove, and slid his hand under the table for her to take out of sight.

Slipping her hand into his, her own gloves already neatly on the table, she entwined her fingers with his, her thumb brushing over his as Watson rose to his feet once more. "Now..." he announced, smiling broadly, "as you can see, a splendid spread has been laid on, so by all means take your fill and on behalf of the bride and groom...enjoy!"

The level of hubbub in the room rose as guests mingled and plates clattered, the servants helping to put the guests at their ease for the celebratory luncheon. Holmes squeezed his bride's hand softly, his knee brushing against hers as he broke off a piece of the dark groom's cake that had been cut and served to everyone on arrival with his other hand. It had been ten days since he'd last been with her, and the feel of her near sent pleasure through him that warmed his blood considerably. He was never the most sociable of men, but even by his standards his desire to be away from all these people was profound. To be on his way with her to Paris, where he could let his guard down and let her warmth wash over him.

But a celebration was a celebration, and the time was passed by necessity in more speeches, toasts, convivial chat and questioning, swapping of stories, and other social niceties.

It was all very pleasant. So pleasant and inoffensive that Mycroft had absented himself to the library and Holmes was so bored and irritated that he was levelling icy glares at a distracted Watson, his watch very publicly and unashamedly in his hand.

The good doctor, absorbed in a conversation with Lady Margaret, was going to speak again when he felt Mary squeeze his arm and give him a rather meaningful look before directing his gaze towards the groom. "I believe the time has come, John, dearest," she whispered.

"Ah..." Watson nodded and coughed, giving his friend an apologetic smile. "Yes indeed."

Rising to his feet, he clinked his glass for silence. "A momentary pause in the revelry, my friends...but a most important one. The rail service beckons, and the bride and groom must depart." He smiled and looked around. "Now if the matron of honour and the bride's mother might attend the bride to help her change, we shall all meet again in the foyer in twenty minutes." He beamed another smile to the crowd. "And now, please back to your enjoyment."

In a flurry of good humour and last looks, the women departed with Mary Watson also in tow. Holmes rose to fetch his belongings and exchange last minute words with his brother and best man in particular before fending off yet more congratulatory remarks and prying questions about their whereabouts, most of which Watson handled charmingly.

A short time later, Helen re-emerged with her small entourage, having changed into an ensemble of grey skirt, jacket, and high necked cream blouse, a beautiful black and dove grey hat on her head, her small travel bag on her arm.

His coat and gloves already in place, Holmes walked up the first four steps to meet her, taking her hand with a private, approving smile, and led her down to the crowd below to help her on with her new grey wool overcoat, their outfits now mixing and matching quite elegantly. At the bottom of the stairs, she was embraced by friends and family alike as they made their way slowly through the crowd, and once outside, the large open carriage awaited.

As Helen said her goodbyes to her mother and brothers before joining him once more, a hail of rice rained down on the newlyweds as they rushed for the carriage, silk ribbons and slippers also following them into the carriage. One slipper landed in the bride's lap as the waving, laughing crowd sent them on their way, the driver, Watson beside him, taking them down the driveway on the short journey back to St. Albans and the train station.

Their luggage had already gone on an express to Victoria, checked all the way through to Dover and the steamer for France, to be there and aboard well before they got there.

Watson waited with them for the train into Victoria, watching them as they sat quietly arm in arm, looking at each other only occasionally, happy as they were. Though his friend's expression gave little away, the doctor was hard pressed to ever remember the kind of quiet contentment Holmes emanated now without being in the very heart of a three pipe problem.

Dipping his head, he smiled to himself, knowing he would have much to write about…even if it too would never see the light of day, let alone a publisher's house. His mind drifted back to the start, to the night Arthur Thurlow had interrupted them at Baker Street. Little had either of them known then where that encounter would lead. How much would be lost…he looked to the pair of them again as the train pulled in to the station…and how much gained.

It had been a long journey, he thought as he aided the couple aboard to take the next step of it. Waving them off as the train pulled out, life as a married man awaiting Holmes and the unexpected news of a French Governmental interruption of their honeymoon awaiting Helen, Doctor John H. Watson chuckled to himself as he turned to walk back to the carriage. The next leg of the voyage should be _very_ interesting indeed.

_** Finis**_

* * *

_**Authors' Notes: And so we reach the end...for now. Stay tuned next year for Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, where we hope to (after a break) continue on with the tale of Holmes and his now wife, Helen Thurlow Holmes. Where will they go from here as the shadow of the greatest criminal genius and a certain Falls in Switzerland loom? But until then, thank you so much for all your reviews and comments and sticking with us as we tell this little tales. But for now, we alas must take a break -- not only for plot bunnies of a Whoish fandom, but because real life has dictated so. I'm afraid you can blame me for this, as my family and I get ready to welcome our latest edition to it this fall. :D Again, thank you for your patronage and your time, and feel free to check our yahoo group for any updates and announcements. Yours, Aeryn and Lfire.  
**_


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